The Good Star
by Kateling
Summary: You can outrun neither past nor prophecy. It's a hard lesson, one both Isabel and Angelo just seem to keep learning over and over again. A BG2 novelization.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** Okay kids, you know the drill. Bioware and Wizards of the Coast own Baldur's Gate and all characters within. I own Isabel and certain other characters and plot points.

The delightful Keto Riven belongs to the folks over at PPG - Victoria Joyner, Jason Compton and Bonnie Rutledge specifically at my last check.

And Angelo Dosan was inspired by Sister Vigilante's wonderful mod over at Gibberlings Three.

_Author's Note: Hello all! This is my first fanfic and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I have writing it. This is a slightly AU retelling of the game and has a strong T raiting for adult themes, occasional language and violence. __Reading and reviewing is not only welcome, it's encouraged!_

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****Prologue**

Isabel Wren stared thoughtfully at the tall window pane to her right and wondered what the likelihood of her surviving the thirty foot drop would be if she just threw herself out of the damn thing and hoped for the best. _Probably not very good_, she decided, as she eyed the violent ocean hurling itself against the white stone bluffs far below. _Not very good at all_. That said, when you weighed the scenario against the probability of her making it through another half hour of Ulraunt's preaching without taking a blunt instrument to her head, her odds of survival began to look a lot more favourably with the window. She spared her haughty, hawk-eyed tutor a resentful glare as he waxed on about the trials and tribulations of some long dead somebody or another. Yes, between the thirty minutes and the thirty feet, she'd definitely take the thirty feet.

Whoever had said that knowledge sets you free had clearly never spent much time in Candlekeep, the great library fortress that perched on the edge of the Sword Coast and Isabel's home. Hells, you couldn't even leave the place unless you had some invaluable piece of arcane text tucked away to get you back through the front door upon your return. Although what kind of person who would want to come back she couldn't imagine.

Isabel suppressed a sigh and knotted her fingers in her long auburn hair. That was unfair of her. It wasn't that she hated Candlekeep, or its books, or most of her tutors for that matter (albeit with some notable exceptions, she thought rebelliously at Ulraunt.) After all, the library and its residents were the only family she had ever known. But life here could be miserable. The days were filled with lessons and chores with only more lessons and chores to fill the gaps between. Propping her head up with one hand she watched the curtain rain patter loudly against the stained glass, streaming down the pane in rivulets of amber, green and red. It just wasn't _fair_. Why was it that day after day she was expected to sit and listen attentively as monks recited the harvest yields from the last quarter century, but whenever she actually had a question to ask, whenever she actually wanted to _learn_ something, she was met with a wall of indifference? Isabel had had to hound the Gatewardens to teach her even the rudiments of swordplay. And how often had she begged Gorion to tell her about her mother? Yes, she loved them. But often it felt Candlekeep was little more than a cage. Perhaps that was why she liked the windows so much. After a lifetime surrounded by stone walls and grey robes, the windows offered a small reprieve from the austerity that characterized the fortress – just in those places where sunlight would spill bright puddles of colour onto the cold flagstone floors.

Something hit the back of Isabel's head. Wincing, she turned to glance over her shoulder and met a familiar pair of mischievous green eyes winking at her from beneath a head of shockingly pink hair. Isabel couldn't quite keep the grin from her lips as she attempted to scowl at her best friend. So maybe the windows weren't the _only_ thing in Candlekeep that wasn't dull. Now that she had Isabel's attention, Imoen's hands flickered beneath her desk in the same secret sign language that had been using since they were eight.

_What's the bet Ulraunt gets up every morning and practices being this boring?_

Isabel's gaze flickered back to their tutor. He was a tall man, if slight, and had jutting, angular features that seemed to enhance the haughty air of self-righteousness the man wore wrapped about him like a protective cloak. As Keeper of the Tomes, Ulraunt effectively ruled Candlekeep and the monks who tended to it and Isabel supposed that in many circles, he was probably quite a respected individual. Isabel thought him a sanctimonious ass.

_He does seem suspiciously good at it,_ she gestured back at Imoen.

_Practice makes perfect?_

_Yeah, a perfect fu–_

"Isabel Wren!"

Isabel almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of Ulraunt's shout punctuated by the sharp crack of his cane coming down hard against her wooden desk. Startled, she looked up into his icy glare, her inattentiveness clearly not have gone as unnoticed as she hoped.

"Yes, Keeper Ulraunt?"

"I'll have your complete and _undivided_ attention from this point onwards, do you understand? I'll not have you waste my time whilst you engage in pointless social frivolities with your friends."

"Here I thought you were the one wasting _my_ time," Isabel muttered under her breath without thinking.

The cane came down again, striking the table scarcely an inch from where her hand rested. He liked to do that a lot, she noted sourly. "I am losing patience with your insolence, Isabel. Do not test it further."

She resisted the temptation to ask him to say "please". "Sorry Keeper." She didn't dare glance back at her partner in crime, who unlike herself had the wisdom to keep her mouth shut.

Ulraunt turned back toward the chalkboard, his tone no longer monotonous and Isabel had a sinking feeling she was in for a lashing.

"Since you have been paying such rapt attention, perhaps you might tell us all the subject of our discussion today?"

"Well technically 'we' haven't been discussing anything."

Ulraunt stared at her unsmiling. "That will be an hour this evening spent cataloguing the Neverwinter Histories for your cheek." Isabel thought she heard Imoen groan behind her. "You have some thoughts on the matter, Imoen?"

"You were speaking of Alaundo, Keeper," she supplied quickly, with an apologetic glance at her companion. Isabel scowled. Just wonderful. The monks practically worshipped the prophet and showing anything less than religious deference toward him was met by Ulraunt with a particularly nasty strain of hostility.

"Indeed, we were deconstructing Alaundo's prophecies. Isabel, pray tell us, what did he foretell?"

_Here we go_, she thought to herself as Ulraunt fixed her with a piercing stare. "The future?"

Imoen didn't quite succeed in suppressing a giggle, which the Keeper ignored. "And that will be another hour. He predicted, amongst other things, the Time of Troubles. In what year did it begin?"

Isabel almost groaned out loud. So he was determined to make her a spectacle was he?

"Um, I believe it was the Year of the Turret –"

"Incorrect. It was the Year of Shadows. And what year exactly was that?"

"Thirteen sixty –"

"Incorrect again. It was thirteen fifty eight." He frowned at her disdainfully. "I don't suppose a rough and tumble young ingrate such as yourself even knows the significance of this period, do you?"

Isabel felt herself rile. So she didn't know a few _dates_! So what? Just because she preferred the guardhouse to a classroom didn't make her a complete idiot. _On the contrary, it probably makes me normal!_

"It was a cataclysmic period when Ao forced the gods to walk Faerun in their avatar forms. Basically he cracked the shits over Bane and Mrykul trying to steal the Tablets of Fate." She raised her chin defiantly – and just because it felt good, she stuck out her tongue.

_Oh dear Gods,_ Imoen groaned inwardly, with the tiniest shake of her head. She was caught between amusement and exasperation. For all her own mischief – and there was plenty of it – Imoen was at least glad for the fact that she had learned the value of keeping one's yap shut. Isabel on the other hand, couldn't help herself. There was no reasoning with her when she got like this – once the girl got a bit between her teeth, she refused to let it go. _Stubborn as a mule_, she thought wryly. _And with all the sense of one._

Ulraunt responded predictably by giving Isabel another hour of extra duties.

"Let me get this straight," Isabel said with deliberate thoughtfulness. "First, I'm punished for _not_ knowing the answers and now I am to be punished when I do?"

"You are being punished for your disrespect. Tymora willing, it might teach you to leash your tongue. Although I myself don't hold out much hope for the fact."

Isabel shrugged. She didn't either.

Ulraunt turned toward the window, his expression oddly pensive as he observed the torrential downpour. "It _was_ cataclysmic. Helm alone was entrusted to guard the gates of heaven. In the name of his duty he even struck down his lover, Mystra. Magic became dangerously unpredictable. Many gods perished, becoming victims to their newfound mortality and for some mortals, the chaos paved the way for ascension. Ironic really." Ulraunt's voice had grown softer as he stared out into the storm that battered itself against the ancient keep. As much as it irked her, Isabel found the odd lilt to his words had piqued her interest. It felt as if he was speaking from a very faraway place and it occurred to her that Ulraunt had actually lived through the Time of Troubles. For the first time, she strained to catch his words over the din.

" 'The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his death he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos shall be sown in their passage.' So sayeth the wise Alaundo." Suddenly his eyes were locked with hers. Isabel shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under a stare so loaded with meanings she didn't understand. "Do you know what is meant by that?"

"He meant to be reborn," she offered quietly.

"Yes, through his children. Bhaal forced himself upon countless women, sowing the seeds – _his_ seed – for his own resurrection. These children are now forever tainted by his evil. The sons and daughters of Murder itself. And when the time of Alaundo's prophecy comes, they will fulfil their birthright. They shall kill until they themselves are killed, until enough have died to fuel the return of their father."

"But it's not like it's the kid's fault," Imoen interjected. "I mean, why should they be persecuted for who their mother decided to shag?"

Ulraunt's eyes were hard. "Would you not persecute the spawn of a demon? Or an illithid? A drow? These beings are dangerous, evil creatures and a Bhaalspawn is precious different. Perhaps even more dangerous for they walk in our image. Evil only begets evil."

"But they're still half human," Isabel pointed out.

"And humanity as a race is too often weak – in will and spirit," Ulraunt replied flatly. "Too easily pretty to sin. Ambitious, lusting after power and glory – add to that the lure of Bhaal's taint? No, inevitably they will fall. It's in their blood. Alaundo foresaw it; the Children of Bhaal will plunge the world into blood and chaos."

"My, my. I did not realise you taught doom saying in your spare time. How considerate of you," said a cool voice from the back of the room. Isabel would know his voice anywhere. All three heads twisted around to see Gorion sweep through the heavy oak doors. He looked as he always did – stern and commanding, piercing blue eyes missing nothing. He spared both girls a glance, his gaze lingering a moment longer on his ward. At eighteen, she was growing into an attractive young woman, he noted, with her auburn curls and her impossibly dark eyes. She didn't look much at all like the little girl he had brought to the keep all those years ago.

_She's outgrowing this place, _he thought. The realisation made him more than a little sad. Rather than dwell however, he fixed his attention upon the Keeper.

Isabel frowned as her foster father approached Ulraunt. Both men wore tight expressions, like polite masks that didn't quite fit over their faces. She and Imoen exchanged glances and Imoen's hands flickered again beneath her desk.

_This should be interesting,_ she said.

Isabel couldn't agree more.

"I was merely recounting Alaundo's prophecies," Ulraunt replied mildly, returning Gorion's icy stare evenly. "I speak only his truths."

"Funny, I don't recall any mention of the innate evilness of Bhaal's progeny in the Chant."

Ulraunt shrugged. "It's a necessary implication of his prophecy. 'The Sword Coast shall run red with blood', 'The Bhaalspawn shall breed death and destruction where 'ere they tread.' These were the sage's words, not my own. Do you deny their veracity?"

Gorion's tone was frostier than a Rashemite winter. "I would deny the intention with which they were told. Alaundo meant for his foretelling to offer solace, not to inspire fear. Certainly not in the minds of two teenage girls."

"Alaundo intended for people to seek solace in knowing the _truth_, to plan for their future without the folly of blindness."

"You don't feel this discussion is a little inappropriate?"

Ulraunt spread his hands wide. "These girls have been afforded the exceedingly rare privilege of being raised in this great fortress – surely it is not to be considered _inappropriate_ for them to know their own history?" There was almost something of a challenge in the way Ulraunt lifted his chin, an unspoken taunt that Isabel couldn't quite explain.

Gorion's eyes glittered dangerously. "That is _quite_ enough, Ulraunt." Ulraunt smirked in reply. 'Girls, you are dismissed."

Neither Isabel nor Imoen needed telling twice, the girls all but scrambling for the exit. Closing the doors behind them, Isabel found herself leaning back against the wall.

"Thank the Gods we're finally out of there!" she declared, pressing the heels of her hands into her temple. Her head was pounding furiously.

"What do you suppose that was all about back there?" Imoen wondered, her green eyes riveted at the door. "I've never seen Gorion like that before."

Isabel rolled her eyes. "Oh come on. It's not exactly a secret that he and Ulraunt can't stand one another."

But Imoen shook her head, her puzzlement still plain. "Never like this. This was… more. I mean, it's unlike Gorion to even interrupt a lesson, let alone cancel one. Or Ulraunt to give one personally for that matter." She smiled wanly at her friend's bemused expression. "Well it's weird, Bels, don't try and tell me different."

"I'm not saying it isn't weird. I'm saying I don't care. And I'm not going to knock Gorion springing us from what I am positive is a new form of cruel and unusual punishment. Come on, let's head down to Winthrop's. With luck I can get in a quick meal before evening lessons."

"You're not the least bit curious?"

"Nup," Isabel replied smiling brightly. She would not admit to anyone, not even herself, just how much the entire exchange disturbed her. It was too irrational, and she shoved the uneasy feeling away. "I'm too delirious from joy. Do you know how amazing it is that I got out of there with my sanity still intact?"

"Yeah, your sanity and three hours worth of punishment duties." Isabel rolled her eyes. "Seriously Bels, you're such a bufflehead! When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut?"

Isabel tweaked her friend's nose and smiled impishly. "Never. Besides," she fell into step with her foster sister. "I only do it with Ulraunt."

Now it was Imoen's turn to roll her eyes. "Uh huh."

Isabel gave her friend a playful shove. "Be nice."

"I'm always nice." Imoen's face was still thoughtful. "You still gotta wonder though," she mused, apparently unwilling to let the strange altercation between the two sages go.

"Bull. Ulraunt despises me, and hates Gorion because I'm his ward. Or the other way round. Whatever." She waved a hand dismissively.

"I don't think it's quite that simple," Imoen disagreed. "And Ulraunt doesn't _despise_ you. He doesn't really like anyone."

Isabel's laughter echoed off the vaulted ceiling. "Ulraunt may not like anyone, but he loathes me. He's never been anything less than cold and disapproving toward me from the day I arrived here. Do you know how old I was at the time? Three." She tossed her hair over her shoulder and gave her friend eye for eye. "You and I get into exactly the same amount of trouble, we pull the same stunts, the same pranks and yet every time, I'm the one stuck with extra punishment duties whilst you get to skip off to Winthrop scot free."

"That is so completely not true!" Imoen objected. "And you wouldn't get half so much grief if you didn't have such a big mouth on you and the restraint of a six year old in a candy shop!"

"Doesn't change the fact that if it wasn't for Gorion's influence, I'd have been tossed out on my hide years ago," Isabel argued stubbornly. "You saw him today – he singled me out. 'When was the Time of Troubles, Isabel?'" she mimicked Ulraunt's nasal tone, screwing her nose as she did so. Imoen giggled. " 'You're such an idiot, Isabel.' 'You're nothing but a rough and tumble little ingrate, Isabel.' So I didn't remember a few dates. Big bloody deal. What an ass."

Imoen giggled again, and then stopped. It took Isabel a minute before she realized her friend was no longer walking beside her. "What is it?" she asked.

"The year," she said slowly. "Think about it. You came here when you were three. And it's 1366 now. That means eighteen years ago…"

Isabel stopped dead. "Oh my gods."

"Yeah."

"I can't believe I didn't see it before. It all makes sense now."

"I know, I can't believe it either. All this time, all these years and neither of us saw it." Isabel gripped Imoen's shoulders painfully, her dark eyed-gaze locking with Imoen's green one. She swallowed.

"I'm – I'm a Child of Bhaal."

Neither spoke a word. Isabel's words simply hung there, like a massive weight suspended in the silence that stretched between them. Then the corner of Imoen's mouth twitched and almost immediately both girls were gasping for air as they dissolved into laughter. Isabel collapsed against the wall, clutching her stomach as she completely surrendered her struggle to remain deadpan.

"Can you _imagine_?" she asked between breaths.

"You should go back in there, totally play it up," gasped Imoen, as she wiped her eyes. "You know, 'Keeper, I've been hearing this voice lately in my dreams. Sometimes even when I'm awake. He says he's my father and that I must fulfill my destiny of death. What do you suppose that means?'"

"Yes, he whispers to me in the night, telling me I must claim by birthright and embark on a killing spree of epic proportions!" Isabel said in a deep voice. She was still shaking with mirth. "He says one day I'll grow up to be a Big Bad Bhaalspawn who mutilates old women and chops up babies into tiny little bits and then eats them!"

"Heh, you should tell him Bhaal wants you to start with him – you know, prove to Daddy you're a good little girl."

"Oh Im, that's genius!"

Imoen grinned back at her, her delicate face pink with laughter. Isabel felt her heart unexpectedly surge with unadulterated love for her foster sister. She'd remembered nothing of her life or her family before Candlekeep. What she did remember were those early years in the library fortress – how the monks had always stared and Gorion, whilst kind, had been distant. She remembered how utterly isolated and lonely she had felt. Then one day she'd met a new girl in the rose gardens. Isabel had never met another person her age before. She had not known what to say to this dainty, green-eyed girl and her broad, inviting smile. But Imoen had known what to say. The stranger girl had stood before her and announced quite calmly that she and Isabel would be best friends. And then she had hugged her as if it was the most normal thing in the world. As if people hugged Isabel on a regular basis.

In another life she would have gone insane cooped up within the library walls. But she had survived, because she had Imoen and Imoen had this amazing knack for creating fun where none had existed before. It infused her, right down to that ridiculous hairstyle.

"What?" she asked, her eyebrows disappearing behind her bangs when she noticed Isabel looking at her. Impulsively she buried the other girl in a hug, just as Imoen had over a decade ago.

"What would I ever do without you?" she murmured into her shoulder.

"Well you're not likely to find out, are you?" she whispered back, surprised and warmed by Isabel's sudden display of affection. "Cradle to grave, remember?"

"Cradle to grave. It's a promise."

"Good. 'Cos I don't want your newfound dad telling you to stab me in my sleep or anything." Imoen grinned. "You evil Bhaalspawn, you."

Isabel laughed again, cuffing her friend playfully. Arm in arm, she smiled as they proceeded to make their way down to the inn. Of all the notions! She, Isabel Wren, the daughter of the dead god of murder? It was so funny she almost wished it was true.

**xxx**

Gorion slammed the door of his office, his fury with Ulraunt only barely constrained. Of all the Keeper's stunts over the years, Gorion had to hand it to him; this one was the most insidious. Telling the girls of the prophecy, the inevitable corruption of the taint – Mystra help him, he had been staring directly _at_ Isabel as he told her about her heritage! Everything he had spent a lifetime sheltering his ward from, everything he had protected her from, Ulraunt brazenly laid out in front of her!

"That arrogant, conceited, selfish git!" he exploded to the empty room.

"Such language, Gorion! I'm shocked," remarked a voice from the shadows in a voice as soft and plush as velvet.

"Likewise," Gorion replied as a tall, hook-nosed man stepped out from the shadows, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. "How are you Dermin?"

Dermin flashed him a broad smile. "Better than you by the sound of it. Ulraunt pushing your buttons again?"

"You have no idea," Gorion said darkly. "He goes too far this time. You should have heard him today, spouting his own warped beliefs about Alaundo's prophecy in front of the girls. No, no – _to_ the girls! I tell you Dermin, your superiors had better sort this out. Ulraunt's an even bigger fool than I give him credit for if he thinks I'm going to let him get away with this."

"Did he actually reveal to Isabel the truth about her parentage?" Dermin asked as he examined his own fingernails.

"No, but –"

"Then there has been no breach of the agreement."

The old mage frowned. "Don't gloss over this Dermin. It was the will of the Harpers that Isabel be brought to Candlekeep. And that she be kept unaware of her true nature. If the Harpers won't enforce the terms of the bargain –"

Dermin's head snapped up sharply. "It was _your_ will, Gorion – not the Harpers – that the Bhaalspawn child be brought here. You were the one that petitioned the Council, begging clemency for the girl –"

"_Clemency_? For Mystra's sake, Dermin, she was barely three years old at the time! We're talking about a baby here, not a murderer!"

"Not yet."

"Dermin!"

Dermin shook his head implacably. "I know you carry a great deal of affection for Isabel, but you are not naive my old friend. You know the prophecies of Alaundo as well as I and you know what she is capable of. One day not long from now, she will turn into the killer she was born to become."

"I wonder, did the Harpers agree for me to raise her in Candlekeep to protect her, or to protect people _from_ her?" Gorion asked through gritted teeth.

"Both I imagine," Dermin remarked with a faint smile.

"None of us are saints, Dermin. We all have blood on our hands – but you're willing to condemn an innocent girl for crimes she hasn't even committed yet."

"Exactly. Yet. Isabel Wren won't remain innocent forever, and you know it." Gorion turned to look out the window that opened out over the courtyard. The rain had abated for the moment, and he spied the red-gold head of the girl in question. Blade in hand, she was sparring with one of the guardsmen, the sound of steel kissing steel just hovering on the edge of hearing. "A promising swordswoman," Dermin murmured behind him.

Gorion offered no reply. Dermin shrugged off his rigid silence.

"I did not mean to offend you, my friend. I only wished to remind you that the Harpers are not of one mind on this issue, and there are those who would sympathize with Ulraunt's position, as well as share his fears."

"It was a shot across the bow and you know it."

"And he will be dealt with accordingly. Gorion," Dermin's tawny eyes were now fixed on his own. "You have bigger problems than the Keeper of the Tomes."

He felt a weariness settle over his shoulders, and the mage slumped into the heavy mahogany chair. "Why did you break into my office Dermin?"

Dermin settled into the chair opposite. "What do you know of Sarevok Anchev?"


	2. Stranger from the North

_Author's Note: Thank you for all the lovely reviews on the first chapter! I hope everyone continues to enjoy as the story rolls on into the more familiar territory of the game. This is a relatively short chapter, so I've put it up here early. The next chapter (which is considerably meatier) will be up in the next couple of days_**.**

**Chapter 1 – Stranger from the North**

_Two years later._

Jakob Wood grinned broadly at the dice before him. Three sixes. Three times the take.

"Sorry mate, looks like Lady Luck is looking over my shoulder tonight," he said with all the ease and bravado that comes from a heady combination of good fortune and heavy ale. The corner of his adversary's mouth twitched.

"The Lady's well-known to be fickle, my good man Wood." He scooped the dice into the upturned cup and set it down with a decisive thud before Jakob. "Care to chance another round?"

There was a slight, but discernable mocking lilt to his words that Jakob found very irritating – after all, he had spent the better part of the night cleaning this stranger out of his coin. Just where did he get the right to sit there so smug anyway? Lifting the cup, he toasted his opponent with a grin which bespoke of a reckless confidence. His luck was going strong anyhow.

"It's your money," he shrugged.

"That's the idea."

The man didn't seem to be paying much attention to Jakob as he churned the dice. Instead, he seemed more concerned with the hustle and bustle of the Copper Coronet's patrons. The inn was a dirty, unpleasant, unsavoury sort of establishment – home to the worst and wretched of the city and whilst Jakob had little fondness for the place, the gambling was good and that was good enough for him. He wondered idly if it was good enough for the man seated across the table. He was difficult to read in the dim, hazy light of the inn. His features were certainly not Amnish – not that it was uncommon to see a foreigner in these parts – but Jakob couldn't quite place his heritage. He was plainly a man of action; a short, vicious blade sheathed at his belt said as much, as did the casual air of confidence he wore – an air worn most often by those who know how to get themselves out of trouble happen they get into it. Dark eyes roved across the crowded common room, apparently disinterested with whatever he found there.

"So, where are you from anyway?" Jakob probed. The stranger's gaze flickered back to his, regarding him for a moment. Then he shrugged.

"I lived up North for the better part of recent history."

"A merc then?" he queried. The Coronet was widely regarded as a hub for mercenary and adventurer types in Athkatla and folks looking to make some fast coin in a dangerous line of work more often than not found themselves seated in this very room. He wouldn't be surprised if this stranger was one such man – he carried himself with the experience of a battle-hardened soldier, but seemingly lacked the purpose of one.

"On my better days." Frowning at the cup, he asked, "Are you going to throw the dice any time soon, or were you waiting for us to die of old age first?"

Jakob scowled and tossed the contents, spilling the dice onto the table. The corner of his opponent's mouth twitched again. Five sixes. Jakob's scowl deepened.

"Do remind me, my good fellow, what were the stakes again? Same as last round I presume?"

Jakob tossed his purse at him with a touch more force than was necessary. The man broke into a wide smile now as he made a great show of peeking into its contents. "Ah, double or nothing, that's right." He laughed at Jakob's grudging glare. "The Lady giveth and the Lady taketh away."

Jakob's glare intensified. _Superior son of a bitch_.

"Oh don't look so sad," remarked the man cheerfully, tossing Jakob back a silver crown with a wink. "Here, have a drink on me."

"Well, I hope you weren't planning on going to the Promenade with that anyway," he muttered sullenly as he silently kicked himself for his own idiocy. He had been playing him like a two copper sitar ever since he had pulled up a chair at his table. He was a canny fellow, this stranger from the North.

The stranger was standing now, still counting his winnings. "And why is that?"

"Well, from what I hear, there's not much left of it since this morning. Some wizard fell off the deep end they say. Blew up the whole north-eastern quarter." Jakob was surprised the stranger hadn't heard the news – the folks he'd spoken to today had hardly uttered a word about anything else. After all, when someone decides to blow up half a district, you can't reasonably expect people to not pop up their heads and take notice. Now the gossip was all over town, how a terrifying mage – some said a Thayvian wizard, others said someone that powerful must surely be a dragon in disguise – had gotten into it with the Cowled Wizards and killed some half dozen of their members before they finally brought him down. The rumours, if you believed them, also went that the mage had been allied with the mysterious rival guild that had not so long ago declared war on the notorious Shadow Thieves. Jakob didn't put much stock in this last story though; whilst the guild war had been unquestionably bloody, it had not attracted the ire of the Cowled Wizards just yet. No, more likely it was just another fool mage driven insane by powers no sane man ought interfere with.

"A wizard eh? Anyone catch his name?" The stranger seemed only mildly curious.

Jakob laughed. "How should I know? All I heard was he took a little trip round the bend and whole buildings started coming down. I've heard tell that the local guild, the Shadow Thieves, were the ones to provoke him, but if they did, they sure has hell didn't walk away from it. I've got a mate who works in one of the district's taverns and he said it took a near score of grey robes to bring him and the other one in."

"Sounds like a powerful fellow," the man mused. "It's a wonder the Cowled Wizards caught him at all."

Jakob looked puzzled. "Why do you suppose that?"

"Well think about it. A mage so powerful he took down half a dozen of them? So powerful he levelled part of a district? A man like that doesn't just pop into existence. A man like that's been around for a long while."

"So?"

"So why didn't your Cowled Wizards catch him before now? "

Jakob pondered this for a minute and his expression darkened. He didn't like that thought one little bit.

"Well, he's caught now, ain't he?" he said a tad uneasily. "Both of them are locked up like they belong."

"Both? There was another mage there?"

Jakob scratched his beard. "Yeah, apparently some other lass and her friends got involved too. Heaven only knows what they were doing there, but this kid, she gets up after he's done toasting the thieves and she's screaming bloody murder at him. And then the tomfool girl lets off a spell. Stupid thing – naturally, the Cowled Wizards arrested her, right along with the mage. Wizard against wizard – it's a bad place to be caught in the middle. I say good riddance anyhow." Jakob shared the city's mistrust for magic and its practitioners.

The man shrugged. "She was unlicensed then, I'm guessing? Since they didn't take her friends?"

"I suppose. They were foreigners by all accounts. Doubt none of them even knew magic was illegal in Ahtkalta. Come to think of it, I think Max said they were Northerners too." He tilted his head up towards the other man's quizzically. "Any friends of yours, oh stranger from the North?"

His query was met with a short laugh. "The North is a big place, Mister Wood. But who knows?"

"Didn't catch the girl's name, but her friend... my mate that works the Mithrest, Max, he thought he'd heard her name some place before. Made a bit of a name for herself up in the Gate apparently. Pretty little thing, red hair, real firebrand. Said it was 'Annabelle' or 'Crisabelle' or some such. Something with 'belle' in it."

The stranger's head jerked up. "Isabel?" he asked very quietly. Jakob could have sworn there was fear in those inscrutable dark eyes.

"Yeah... Isabel. Isabel Wren. That was the name–" He blinked suddenly and looked around. The man was nowhere to be seen.

His purse lay untouched on the table.


	3. Ghosts

**2 – Ghosts**

Isabel liked graveyards. It was entirely too macabre and probably had more to do with Daddy dearest then she liked to admit, but there was an odd peace to be found amongst the graves. Voices were kept politely hushed, footsteps slow and measured on cobbled stones swept clean for fear of giving offense. The entire attitude that permeated such a place was one of carefully contrived neutrality. When one was continuously surrounded by chaos, drawn into events not of their making, everybody's pawn and nobody's master – in the face of such uncertainty, Isabel was incongruously comforted by spending time in a cemetery. Perhaps it was simply that, death at least, was a given.

Her visit today, however, was not exactly recreational.

Athaktla dedicated an entire district – albeit a small one – to honouring its dead. It was characterised by sombre stonework and respectful monuments, but made beautiful by its carefully maintained gardens – death balanced by life, Isabel supposed. Today, Athkatla's fallen rested under a glorious canopy of autumn red and gold. She sighed almost wistfully as she appreciated the riot of colour and the gusty breeze which plucked the leaves from their branches. It was her favourite season. _If only I could enjoy it under better circumstances,_ she thought as she half-listened to the priest's eulogy. _One more foster sister and one less psychotic mage Hells bent on making my life miserable and I'd be pretty well set. And in the absence of that, cheaper help._

It had been two weeks since that day in the Promenade. Two weeks since she had crawled out of that hole. Two weeks since Imoen had been arrested and two weeks since she had discovered that you could indeed buy anything in the City of Coin – but the price of a friend's freedom might as well be the stars for all you could afford it. Isabel stared down at her feet despondently. She'd been so relieved, so happy when she pulled Imoen into that brilliant white sunshine. They were finally safe from the sadistic monster who had caged them like animals, who had experimented and tortured them both for reasons she couldn't understand. Nothing else had mattered, but the fact that the horrors of that place were behind her. Maybe if she hadn't been so blinded by her need to escape that nightmare, Isabel might have realised sooner that she was about to stumble head first into another.

Lost to her self-pity, she nearly didn't notice when the minister finished speaking and the small gathering of mourners began to disperse. Looking up, she saw her recent employer making her way toward her. Nalia de'Arnise wore mourning well; she was resplendent in a full skirted black velvet gown trimmed with silver and her caramel hair was neatly swept up in a complicated knot at the base of her neck. As good as she may have looked however, her grief was sincere and her eyes were gaunt and red-rimmed behind her veil.

Isabel doubted she would have looked half so good if it had been _her_ father's funeral. Not that she had ever gotten the chance to give Gorion one.

"Isabel, I appreciate your coming. I am sure my father would have appreciated it too," she said, clasping Isabel's hand warmly. Her voice was steady, but Isabel could hear the sorrow that lay beneath it.

"Again, I am sorry for your loss Lady de'Arnise – Nalia," she corrected herself at the woman's frown. Nalia de'Arnise was a rarity among the Athkatlan aristocracy in that she'd rather play down her nobility than flaunt it. "And again, I apologise for not being able to save your father."

Nalia waved her apology away. "It wasn't your fault, Isabel. You did the best you could and that's all anyone can ask. It was a ridiculously dangerous task that no other mercenaries wanted to take up, but you still did."

Isabel smiled wryly. "You are kind for saying so, but we both know I only took the job because I was the only one desperate enough for the coin."

"You saved my family's home," Nalia replied firmly. "I couldn't care less what your reasons were for agreeing to help me – just that you did."

Isabel ducked her head in acknowledgement, but more to acquiesce Nalia than because she believed her words. To her mind, the de'Arnise job had been a narrowly avoided disaster. The reward would likely barely cover the healing costs.

"It was a beautiful service."

Nalia's face grew distant as her eyes fell upon the spattering of nobles who had also attended the funeral. They huddled together in twos and threes, and Isabel noticed more than few whispers and pointed looks in the direction of Lord de'Arnise's newly orphaned daughter. "Yes. I think he would have liked it, although for my own part I wish he'd kept more pleasant company when he was alive. Some of Father's acquaintances are such snobs. I wonder if the only reason they came was to find out what I plan to do with his estate." She wrinkled her delicate nose in obvious distaste. Isabel felt a surge of pity for the girl. How hard it must be to grieve with the vultures circling.

"What do you plan to do?"

Nalia's gaze flickered back to hers. "I plan to fight," she said with quiet, but vicious determination. "My claim might be tenuous, but I'll be damned if I see my house usurped by some foppish nobleman just because my mother gave birth to a daughter instead of a son. I might have breasts, but damn it, they'll learn I have balls too."

Isabel grinned at that. "Well, may Lady Luck smile upon you Nalia. I wish you the very best."

"Thank you – for everything." The noblewoman smiled, and handed Isabel a small purse. "I hope this goes some way to helping save your friend."

"So do I."

She sighed deeply, watching as Nalia left with the rest of the funeral procession. Despite the girl's assurances to the contrary, Isabel still had strong reservations about their last contract. It wasn't just that she felt guilty for getting to Nalia's father too late, but the battle for the keep had been hard. Gruellingly hard. As it was, Jaheira had almost been killed when a troll got past her defence. She shifted her weight off her own injury – a deep, nasty gash where an umber hulk had tried to chew her leg off.

It was a painful reminder of how she not only missed her friends – but of how much she needed them too.

Thrusting Nalia's purse deep into the pocket of her coat, Isabel began to make her way to the central monument, her thoughts returning to familiar, bitter places. She had paid her respects to the stranger she had failed; it was long overdue she extended the same courtesy to her own family.

It didn't take her too long to find what she was looking for. It was a small statue which sat nestled in the grass at the foot of the oldest tree in the graveyard. The tree had been the first planted when the site was selected as the city's resting place for the dead, and it stood dead centre in the district. Isabel smiled wryly at her own little-known knowledge of graveyard custom. She was the daughter of a pantheon of the very, _very_ dark variety after all.

She knelt before the tree and the stone figure at its foot. The statue was an old, worn thing barely two feet high. It was faceless, the contours of its features worn away with age. The monument was common to almost every burial ground in the North, and Isabel was glad to see that the custom was followed here in Amn as well – although she wondered idly if people here even realised its significance. Likely not, she decided. The shrine felt unused and ignored. It was kind of ironic really; the statue depicted an angel, the patron of those who fall in battle and whose bodies cannot be retrieved for a proper burial. Forgotten warriors left to rot in the fields. Isabel reached into the deep pocket of her coat and pulled out three heavy coins. They were not normal currency, but cast iron disks wrought with the symbol of Kelmevor. Death offerings.

"For Dynaheir," she whispered, and placed the first disc in the cupped hands of the angel. She bit on her lip as she thought of the soft-spoken elven enchantress and her Rashemite protector. She placed another disc in its hands. "For Minsc," and as an afterthought murmured, "and Boo. I know you wouldn't want me to forget Boo, my old friend."

She stared at the last coin in her hand. This was harder than the others. She had loved them all, but Khalid's loss hurt her more deeply. She closed her eyes, trying to push away the memory of his corpse lying on that rack, so bloody he was scarcely recognisable. Of how they had had to pry Jaheira's fingers away from his body. No, Khalid's death meant so much more. She would feel his absence from this world every time she looked at his widow.

"For you, Khalid," she said softly, kissing the coin before dropping the offering into the angel's waiting hands. "May you find the Heaven you deserve."

She sniffed. Well, no one was around, she supposed. No one would judge her if she wept for her fallen.

"Why, Isabel, fancy running into you here of all places! I do hope the season finds you well," a husky voice behind her remarked. Isabel stilled. She knew that voice. She just never thought she would ever hear it again.

xxx

Angelo Dosan leant casually against the wall of a nearby crypt, his arms folded and face split in a lopsided, sardonic smile he hoped projected an air of nonchalance. He watched Isabel carefully. He had expected her surprise; actually he had counted on it. He wanted her off balance. This was a situation that required a certain level of finesse if he was even going to have a hope of pulling it off.

Angelo regarded the woman who had been his adversary. This little girl who had caused him such frustration back in the Gate. This girl after whom he had sent assassin after assassin to kill. The girl who had brought Sarevok to his knees.

The girl who had once killed him. _Well, almost anyway._

Well she was a girl no longer, Angelo knew. He would not make the mistake of underestimating her again.

"I'm not interrupting anything am I?" He asked, gesturing to the shrine. The angel of forgotten warriors, he remembered. She had been making death offerings for fallen friends. Angelo wondered what had exactly happened to her. He knew only what Jakob had mentioned in the Coronet of her rather spectacular arrival to Athkatla and the handful of rumours he'd caught since. He'd scarcely believed his ears when Jakob had spoken her name. _Isabel Wren_. All he could think of was the memory of those impossibly black eyes staring down over his corpse after the sheer unbridled fury she had unleashed that night in the bowels beneath Baldur's Gate.

And now he had sought her out. Not for the first time since he had conceived his latest plan, Angelo seriously questioned his sanity.

Isabel still had not spoken. She was standing perfectly motionless, but Angelo recognised the fighter's gait she had slipped into. Standing at not quite five eight, she was deceptively slender. Freckles lightly dusted a nose that had been broken at least once, leaving it slightly crooked in an otherwise delicate face framed by loose auburn curls that tumbled untidily over her shoulders. It was still her eyes that struck him the most though; a rich black-brown, several shades too dark for her colouring. Hard eyes. Eyes that could cut through a man as surely as any blade.

When she finally did speak, her voice was level. Calculated. "You were dead."

Angelo shrugged. "Apparently not."

"Such a shame," she murmured. Long fingers tapped the hilt of her blade. "I do hate to leave work half-done."

"Easy now, kitten. Hear me out before you do anything rash."

"Rash? _Rash?_" Angelo silently cursed his choice of words as she began to close the distance between them. "You would have seen me do the gallow's jig. You tried to kill me and now you've what? Sought me out? And you call _me_ rash? You've got some nerve, Dosan."

She shoved him against the mausoleum wall, anger radiating off her in waves. "I'm not even going to ask for one good reason," she whispered. Angelo met her furious stare evenly. At least he hoped so.

"Well I'll give you one anyway." Isabel hissed in pain as he sent a swift knee to her bad leg and her grip relaxed just enough for him to twist out of her grasp. She went for her blade, but his hand was there first, smashing her wrist repeatedly against the mausoleum wall until she dropped the sword. Angelo smiled grimly – speed was her weapon, not brute strength, and in such close quarters with no room to manoeuvre, he was the superior opponent. With a practiced move he had her against the wall, his blade pressed at her throat.

"And what might that be?" They were close enough that he could hear her shallow breathing, but the eyes he looked down into were still defiant. _Admirable,_ he found himself thinking. _And not a little bit crazy._ He held her there for a long moment.

"Because I can help you." Roughly, he let her go and stepped backwards, ignoring the pain from where her fists and boots had found purchase during their scuffle. Isabel leaned back against the crypt.

"Help me?" she remarked scathingly. "How could you possibly help me, Angelo?"

Angelo's eyes never left hers. "Rumour has wings Isabel, and a smart man keeps his ear to the ground. Sorry to mix metaphors, but you _are_ in trouble."

"You don't know what you're talking about Dosan."

He cocked an eyebrow. "You blew up half a district."

"I wasn't the one who destroyed the Promenade!"

"Maybe not, but you _were_ involved. You've gotten yourself into some nasty shit and you're looking to get into a whole lot more if you want to take on the Cowled Wizards for arresting that irritating pink-haired shadow of yours."

"Well, trolling through shit _would_ be what you're best at," she replied with undisguised venom.

"That's cute. Doesn't change the facts – you need help. Mercenary help. And clearly," he gestured at the shrine behind her, "friends are somewhat thin on the ground right now. How am I doing so far?"

Isabel's expression darkened. Angelo realised then that her face was still tear-streaked. He really was treading a minefield now – this was a girl who had brought down a nation-wide conspiracy because someone had murdered a person she loved after all. But he was right, and she knew it.

"What do you want?" she asked quietly.

Angelo took a deep breath. "I'll do for you what I did for your brother."

Isabel laughed, but it was a harsh sound. "You'll forgive me if that doesn't fill me with confidence."

"Well before you dismiss me out of hand, you should remember I was behind him right to the end, even after I realised he was the craziest bastard ever put on this earth." He shrugged. "And you seem a touch harder sort than Sarevok Anchev."

"You're nothing more than an opportunistic scoundrel, Angelo."

"Yes," he smiled faintly. "But I could be _your_ opportunistic scoundrel. You need a sword arm and I need a job – I believe this is what the merchants here would call a commercial situation."

Isabel was shaking her head, running fingers restlessly through her red tresses. The fire in her eyes had died down to embers – for now. Angelo doubted it would take little more than a good stoking before it was roaring again. Still, it was a promising sign.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," she muttered more to herself than to him. She looked over at him quizzically. "You're seriously proposing that I pay you to watch my back?"

"We were simply on opposite sides of the coin before," he replied evenly. "My word to you is good, Isabel – it's all I have."

_Come on,_ he thought furiously at her. _Come on, Isabel, just let bygones be bygones. Just do it._ He was starting to get desperate. If this gamble didn't pay off, all he would have achieved was earning a quicker death. _Scratch that,_ he decided, still watching her consider his offer. _I was already desperate to even come here._

"Even if I could trust you – which I don't – why would you ever trust me?" The puzzlement in her face was sincere. "I have every possible motive to see you dead."

"What? Vengeance? Sarevok is already dead. You've had your vengeance."

"You helped him."

"You overestimate my involvement. I was at his back, but hardly his right hand. Do you really believe that I am the reason he went as far as he did?"

"I don't know what to believe," she replied softly. "But don't think me so naive as to trust you when you claim you didn't know what was going on."

Angelo shook his head. "No, I knew – more or less. And I'm not making any apologies for it either. I'm a mercenary, Isabel. I do what I am paid to do and I'm good at it." He took a step toward her. "Can't we just... forget the past?" His husky voice was as soft as her own had been.

Isabel regarded him for a moment. He couldn't read the unspoken question she held in that long look, but he got the distinct impression he was being sized up. His stomach tightened. _Gods all bless_, he wondered. _Is she actually going for this?_

"You _do_ have some nerve," she said finally. She pushed herself off the wall and leaned down to retrieve her sword. The naked blade was held ready as she walked toward him. Angelo was almost afraid to breathe. He sincerely hoped his desperation wasn't as obvious as it felt.

"We have a deal?"

Isabel hesitated a long moment before she sheathed her sword and clasped his outstretched hand. Before he could sigh his relief however, she twisted his arm – not viciously, but firmly. "I want to make one thing clear, Angelo."

He raised an eyebrow. "Only one?"

He could have sworn he saw her bite back the tiniest of smiles.

"The past is neither forgiven nor forgotten," she said softly. "You want in my company, you'll prove your worth with more than empty words. And this isn't a "yes", this is a "maybe", understand?"

He nodded silently and she released his arm, stepping back. Grudging acceptance was the most he could hope for, he knew. Hells, it was arguably a lot more than he deserved. Her eyes were still questioning, but for the moment at least, she seemed willing to put her obvious mistrust to one side.

"I just know I'm going to regret this," was all she said. She jerked her head toward the district's exit, indicating he should walk in front. Her mouth was fixed in a grim line. She was hating every part of this arrangement already.

_The start of a beautiful friendship_, Angelo thought to himself sarcastically. _Angelo Dosan, you really are without a doubt, one hundred percent certifiably insane._


	4. Strange Bedfellows

_Author's note: Well, I was planning to sit on this chapter for a little longer, but I think I might need the feedback for what follows. Fingers crossed anyhow :)_

_ Also as a sidenote, subsequent references to Dynaheir will be sure to portray her with some semblance of accuracy, rather than unwittingly furnish her with pointy ears. Thanks Ipsissimus for spotting that embarrassing little blunder... :)_

_

* * *

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**3 – Strange Bedfellows**

_Isabel Wren, you really are without a doubt, one hundred percent certifiably insane,_ she thought to herself for what seemed like the millionth time as she made her way back to the inn where the rest of her battered company waited. _I mean seriously, what could you possibly be thinking? Come to grips with your senses for the Gods' sake, girl!_

With a sideways glance, she peeked at Angelo. He matched her brisk pace easily, walking to her left and just slightly behind. She still couldn't believe this was happening. Was it not enough she had to grapple with new enemies, but now she had to deal with old ones too? And what in the Nine Hells did he want with her anyway? What could possibly have compelled him to seek her out? Just what kind of game was he playing?

He stared resolutely ahead, apparently not interested in making conversation. That suited Isabel just fine. She wouldn't have a clue what to say to him regardless. What did you say to someone you thought you killed over two months ago?

The myriad of questions tumbling through her psyche were giving her a headache – a perfect complement to that familiar sick feeling she had in her stomach. She tried in vain to pay more attention to Athkatla's winding dirty streets, but invariably her mind would turn back to the question of her own sanity in allowing a known murderer to keep his life, let alone her company.

He hadn't been wrong in the graveyard. In fact, it had been scary how on the money he had been in his assessment of her situation. She was essentially stranded in a foreign city – Hells, a foreign _country_ – with precious little coin and even fewer friends. She had not the faintest idea where Imoen was being held, but certainly more than a few relating to what kind of danger she could be in while she was there, and all with only one lead to follow. And that particular lead came attached to a small fortune. The term 'unbelievably screwed' came readily to mind.

She did need help. And Angelo, at least, would probably be cheap help at that. Isabel had every intention of exacting a sizeable discount for his services. It was only fair after all; he had hunted her across the span of the Sword Coast – he would make up for it in coin if nothing else. Besides she couldn't imagine Sarevok keeping him around for so long if he wasn't at least competent.

That didn't change the fact that she was utterly crazy to be even considering accepting his offer.

She peeked at him again. Isabel was still surprised at how tall he was. She supposed she was used to seeing him in her brother's shadow – and her brother had cast a mean shadow at that. He looked every inch a sword-for-hire: like hers, his large nose had been broken at least once, a scar cut across his left eyebrow and he hadn't shaved in a few days. Scruffy, was the word. The only things that did not match the roughness of his features were a pair of warm, whiskey-coloured eyes that were as inscrutable as they were lovely.

Angelo had noticed her noticing. He raised an eyebrow quizzically. She shrugged awkwardly and turned her attention back to the road.

The rank scent of water and fish wafted over the traffic – they were approaching the Bridge District. Isabel had opted for an inn here rather than the larger establishment in the slums both Bayle and Yoshimo had suggested. The Coronet was a hub for people like her – mercenaries, adventurers, travellers. Whilst they frequented the place when looking for work, it was still the most likely place someone might recognise her, and for the moment at least, Isabel wanted to maintain her anonymity so far as was possible. After all, wasn't it all part of the reason she had landed herself and her friends in this sorry mess in the first place?

The road was evidently one of the major thoroughfares of the city. She knew that 'The Bridge' (as it was so imaginatively named) connected the bazaar and the poorer quarters of Athkatla with the more opulent Government and Temple districts, but barring one fruitless trip to the offices of the Cowled Wizards, she had seen little of either. The Bridge District itself was a curious melting pot of the Athkatlan community. It had a little bit of everything and everyone; nobles and merchants, beggars and thieves. It was obviously too poor to be above the notice of the Amnish aristocracy, but more well-to do than either the slums or the docks. Or so Yoshimo had told her. Isabel would have liked the company of the Kara-turan thief now. Yoshimo was the only one who truly knew Athkatla; Jaheira had indicated she had been here before, but she had been withdrawn and unapproachable since their flight from Irenicus' dungeon.

She was _not_ looking forward to her reaction to their (maybe) newest travelling companion.

Angelo had still not broken the silence. Isabel frowned. Didn't he have questions of his own for her? Why was she in Athkatla, for example? Or about Imoen or what her plans were for getting her back?

Angelo continued stoically forward.

Apparently not.

They were nearing the district entrance. The traffic here was slower and more congested as people jostled with carts and horses, funnelling through the bottleneck gate.

Isabel fidgeted as they shuffled along. The slow pace and the silence she had welcomed before was now irritating her. She had to say something. Anything.

"So," she began. Angelo turned to face her expectantly, whilst she groped hopelessly for something to say. "The weather is warmer here, isn't it?" she finished lamely. _Good one Bels._

Angelo stared at her like she had sprouted a third arm.

"Well, Athkatla being some hundred miles south and all."

"Well thanks genius," she muttered, embarrassed.

They continued in silence, passing under the stone arch that marked the district border. Isabel saw immediately why the traffic had been moving so slowly; city guards were stopping everyone who passed into the area. She frowned.

"Is this normal?" The question came out without thinking. She glanced back at Angelo. His expression was just as puzzled.

"I haven't been here that long, but I don't think so," he replied. "We don't usually like to do anything that will piss off the people if we don't have to. It just makes the job that much harder."

"'We'?"

"It was that way with the Fist at least," he qualified hastily. He risked a glance at her, like he was checking for a reaction. Isabel only nodded. She didn't need reminding that he had only recently been serving as a captain in the ranks of the Flaming Fist. That insignia had given him the authority to serve as her judge, jury and executioner.

The guard who appeared in charge of stopping and questioning people was a tired looking man of middling years. His salt and pepper beard was trimmed neatly and although he wore the livery of the Athkatlan city guard, he bore a different insignia then that of some of his companions. A man of some rank then, Isabel surmised.

"You two, you're travelling into the Bridge District today?"

_Why else would we be here?_ Isabel thought impatiently. "Yes sir. Is there a problem?"

"So long as you keep your weapons at your sides, I shouldn't think so." Isabel arched a brow at his ever-so-thinly veiled threat.

"I'm sure there's something more important than me for you to worry about."

"Undoubtedly," the officer agreed. "But since you're both obviously not from around here, you might look like a target. And I don't want anyone on the streets tonight who shouldn't be."

"A couple of fools die in a bar fight or something?" Angelo asked.

The officer's forehead creased into a frown. "That would be no less a crime than anything else," he remarked sternly. "But no, this is something a good deal more sinister, and I don't want to hear of either you or your lady friend causing any trouble here, understand?"

_Lady friend?_ Isabel rolled her eyes, but bit back the retort. "No sir, no trouble from us," she assured him, giving Angelo a meaningful look as she said it. "We've simply some business to conduct at the Five Flagons, that's all."

"Fine, fine. Just stay out of the streets at night. I'm undermanned here as it is; I don't need to be looking out for some tomfool foreigners looking for a brawl." And with that, they were waved on as he proceeded to address the next party. Isabel felt the momentary urge to turn and poke her tongue out at him. She grinned at the thought – it was just the kind of insubordinate statement Imoen would have been proud of.

_But I'm not here, am I?_

It was a voice somewhere between Imoen's and her own, but there was enough of Imoen in it to sting. It was the same accusatory voice she'd been hearing a lot lately, ever since she'd watched her friend's wide green eyes terrified as she was pulled into an inter-dimensional portal. The small voice that twisted her stomach into knots, the one that whispered over and over and over... _It's your fault._

_Well, isn't it?_

_I didn't mean for this to happen. This wasn't how it was meant to turn out, you know that._

_Gee, I feel _so_ much better now._

_Im..._

_No. I could be anywhere. They could be doing anything to me. Hells Bels, I'm probably with Irenicus right _now_ and you're not doing anything to stop–_

"What's at the Five Flagons?"

For the first time since – well, ever – Isabel actually was grateful for Angelo's presence. The voice that was Not-Imoen scuttled back to whatever darkened corner of her mind she came from. For now.

"It's an inn," she replied. "Jaheira and Yoshimo – friends – are waiting for me there."

He frowned, trying to place the names. "The druid?"

"The one and the same." She grinned wickedly at his face. "I take it from your expression you remember her?"

Angelo scowled. "I like to think I have a fairly impressive memory for names. Particularly the ones of those who have tried to run me through with a spear."

"Well, Jaheira is nothing if not memorable."

"The same could be said for you." Isabel wasn't quite sure how to take that. "So I suppose her husband is waiting for us there too?" he continued on. "I wonder what he'll do when she sees me with you."

Isabel went cold. "Probably not a lot."

Angelo raised an eyebrow. "Just what sort of company _have_ you been keeping, if I don't provoke a reaction?" he inquired mildly.

"I don't imagine Khalid cares much about anything these days," she replied shortly.

It took her a minute to realise Angelo was not beside her. She stopped abruptly, spinning round to see him standing several paces behind, comprehension dawning in whiskey eyes.

"Oh."

"Yeah." She kept walking. She was in no mood to entertain this topic with Angelo of all people. It was hard enough to justify his continued breathing without him mentioning any one of the host of dead friends she'd just walked away from.

He caught up with her easily. _Tall bastard_, she thought sourly. "I'm sorry," he said finally.

"Oh spare me, please," she hissed. "The only thing I could abide less than your being here is when it comes attached to false sincerity."

Angelo shrugged, once again unreadable. "Take it however you will."

The remainder of the journey was silent from that point. Isabel kept a tight leash on her temper, but it was not without effort. Deep down, she knew that it wasn't really Angelo who was the source of her troubles, and she reminded herself that she did need his help – but she resented him for it nonetheless. Talk of Khalid was like pouring salt on an open wound.

They crossed a brightly lit square to the waiting inn on the other side. Built from the same red brick that characterised the Bridge, the Five Flagons Inn stood about two stories high and adjacent to a building where – according to Yoshimo – you could spend the evening with some of Athkatla's 'finest and most accommodating young ladies.' Isabel almost rolled her eyes at the memory. Trust a rogue to suggest the pub next to a whorehouse, she thought wryly. She hesitated, one hand on the latch. Turning, she scrutinized her companion.

"You lift it and push," he suggested and bit back a smile at her answering frown.

"Shush, I need a second to... yes. Give me your weapon," she demanded suddenly, holding out her hand.

The man stared at her in disbelief. "You've _got_ to be kidding."

"Trust me, my joking my face doesn't look anything like this. Give me your sword."

"Isabel, I am not walking anywhere unarmed."

Isabel's mouth twisted into a sly grin. "Don't worry, I'll protect you." When he still didn't budge, she sighed impatiently. "Angelo, when Jaheira sees you she's going to spit the proverbial dummy and it would be _most_ helpful if you weren't packing steel when I attempt to convince her you're not a threat. So give me your sword."

He frowned, unbuckling the blade at his hip. "I don't like this," he warned her, handing it over.

Isabel accepted the blade, clipping the sheath to her own belt. "I'll cry you a river later. Now your knife."

Angelo opened his mouth to object and she held up her hand.

"Please Angelo. You can't possibly realise how much I'd love to do this the hard way right now."

He closed his mouth abruptly, expression sullen as he reached down and unsheathed the blade in his boot. Looking down to see her eyes still expectant, Angelo sighed heavily and then proceeded to hand over the other boot knife and a blade up his right sleeve.

"You know," he said as he gave over his two other knives, "I'm a little concerned about this plan of yours."

Isabel's expression was clearly amused as she pocketed the fourth of his daggers. "So I see."

"No, in all seriousness, what if she tries to run me through again?"

Her answering smile was all sweetness. _Bad sign,_ he thought. _Very bad sign._

"Well Angelo, I'm not going to lie to you. If she does decide to come at you with something sharp and pointy, why, I'll probably do nothing at all." She opened the door for him. "After you."

"Whatever happened to 'I'll protect you'?" he muttered as he passed her. She laughed.

"Call it false sincerity."

The Five Flagons was an airy, cheerful kind of pub – Isabel was quite taken with the place, although she had seen little of it but her own apartments. By all accounts, the inn was quite extensive, boasting baths, stables and oddly enough, a playhouse. But the warmly lit common room, cheery hearth and the truly impressively stocked bar had left her with a very good impression all on its own.

Scanning the packed room, her eyes fell upon Yoshimo. The bounty hunter was leaning on the bar, engaged in conversation with a young, red-headed girl. Noticing her entrance, he smiled broadly and Isabel jerked her head toward a nearby table.

Yoshimo whispered something to the girl, who laughed spritely, and then sauntered over to them. Like most mercenaries, his tanned face bore several souvenirs of their dangerous lifestyle. He was not an overtly attractive man, but he had long silky black hair she instantly envied and a wide mouth made for smiling. Dark, slanting eyes betrayed his eastern descent. Despite the relative shortness of their acquaintance, Isabel found she genuinely liked the Kara-turan bounty hunter; he wore his good humour on his sleeve.

"Our fair leader returns!" he said grinning first at her and then at her dark-eyed companion. "And with a chap in tow I see. Might I ask who your friend is?"

"He is _not_ my friend," Isabel responded quickly. "_Or_ my 'chap'." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked vaguely amused by her reaction, which in turn, vaguely irritated her.

"She's right, you really wouldn't want to confuse me with a person she actually likes," Angelo said dryly, extending his hand to the thief. "Angelo Dosan." Yoshimo returned the smile with genuine warmth.

"Dosan? You are from Kara-Tur then?" he asked eagerly.

"Excuse me?" She interjected in surprise.

"Kozakura," Angelo replied.

"Surely not! I myself grew up there! I am Yoshimo by the way." They both grinned and gripped each other's arms in a familiar, distinctly 'brothers-in-arms' kind of style.

"Hold on a second," Isabel interrupted. She turned toward Angelo incredulously, "you're Kara-Turan? Since when?"

"Birth?"

"Funny," she replied sarcastically and he shook his head.

"Sorry. I'm only half, which is why most people can't pick it. And most folks back home would as soon as call a dog a cat than a half-breed like me a Kara-Turan–"

"Bigots and ignorant fools the lot of them!" Yoshimo toasted him as a squat, halfling waitress delivered a round. Yoshimo was evidently still delighted to meet someone who hailed from his country. Angelo grinned and raised his tankard in reply.

_Great_, she thought sourly, downing a healthy dose from her own glass. _He's already best buddies with Yoshimo inside of five minutes. Perfect._

"But our dear fellow samurai is not a friend of yours, Isabel?" His voice was slightly hesitant, and he did not miss the look the pair exchanged.

"No, 'friend' is not the word I would use to describe Angelo in any hurry," she said. "But 'our dear samurai,'" she made a face, "may be joining our party all the same." She set her glass down on the table, and glanced quickly about the room. "Speaking of the rest of our party, where's Jaheira?"

Yoshimo's smile faded a fraction. "She was somewhat... out of sorts, and retired to her rooms fairly soon after you left," he answered, suddenly more guarded. She appreciated his tact in front of Angelo, and gave him a small, but grateful smile which he acknowledged. "Are you and she acquainted at all?" he asked the other man. Isabel snorted.

"Certainly not as much as _she'd_ like to be, I'm sure," she said grinning wickedly. She deliberately ignored the unspoken uncertainty that flickered in the thief's eyes and Angelo offered no comment save the slightly pained look that graced his hard features.

He settled for changing the subject. "So, can I infer from your not-friend Angelo's presence here, we're finally taking on mercenaries?"

"After our latest fiasco, you're damn right we are," Her eyes rested on the red headed girl at the bar for a moment. "Why do you ask? Seen something you like, Yoshimo?" Her voice was teasing and his expression of mock outrage made her laugh all the more.

"It shall never be said that the Great Yoshimo would mix work and play in the performance of his duties," he informed her in a lofty likeness of her druid friend.

"The 'Great Yoshimo?'" Angelo piped in. Isabel shook her head from side to side rapidly.

"Don't get him started." She turned back to the thief, who still couldn't quite keep his easy smile from his lips as he struggled to maintain the pretence of wounded pride. She grinned into her cup, shaking her head at his theatrics, his light hearted temperament doing much to lift her out of her ill spirits. "How are you, anyway? We can go to a healer if you need to –"

Yoshimo waved her offer away impatiently. "Don't be ridiculous. Besides, if anyone should make a return visit to the doctor, it's you my dear. How's the leg?"

"Still attached to the rest of my body. Can't complain." She poked her tongue at the thief, earning a quiet chuckle.

"You can and you will no doubt," he chided her good-naturedly. Noticing Angelo's puzzled stare, Yoshimo decided to fill him in a little. "An umber hulk attempted to use Isabel's leg as a chew toy on our last job." Angelo winced.

"An umber hulk? What was the job?"

"A group of trolls attacked one of the local baronies," Isabel explained. "The lord's daughter hired us to clear the family castle."

"The things that lurk behind closed doors," Yoshimo murmured. He leaned back with a sigh, all trace of laughter and smiles retreating from his features. "Especially a noble's. How was the funeral?"

"It was... oh, I don't know Yoshimo, it was a funeral. It was sad."

"Your grasp of the obvious is remarkable, my dear." Isabel scowled at him in reply. He cleared his throat. "Not to sound crass, but did we –"

"– get paid?" she finished for him. He deftly caught the purse she tossed in his direction. "You can take that to Bayle tomorrow."

"You're out on bail?" Angelo asked, baffled. Her lips curved into a smile. Petty as it was, his obvious confusion was kind of amusing.

"Gaelan Bayle. He is our contact here in Athkatla."

"Contact for whom?"

"The Shadow Thieves," Yoshimo remarked drily. Isabel shot him a look.

"The Shadow Thieves _we think_," she corrected, to which the thief promptly rolled his eyes. It was not a new argument between the pair of them.

"Please ignore Isabel, Angelo." Angelo tilted his head in her direction, the corner of his mouth quirked with amusement at _that_ particular directive. "Despite her firm belief in her own omnipotence, she actually knows next to nothing about the workings of the underworld of this city."

"Ouch!" She joked.

"I'm sorry, but it's true, my dear."

She rolled her eyes. "You could at least attempt to spare my feelings. Anyway, whatever group Bayle is fronting for, they're offering a way to find Imoen."

"How much is that going to cost you?" Angelo asked, before sipping from his tankard.

Isabel smiled crookedly. "Twenty thousand gold crowns."

He choked. "_Excuse me?_" Yoshimo patted him on the back.

"Yeah, that was my reaction pretty much. What did he call it? 'The charitable hand of friendship', that's it." Her mouth twisted bitterly as she recalled her meeting with the rat-faced little man, and the way he had smiled patronizingly at her, like he had her over a barrel and they both knew it. Would that he'd been wrong.

"You forget this is a merchant town, Isabel," Yoshimo reminded her drily. "'Charity' is practically synonymous with sin here, didn't you know?"

The conversation slowly dissolved into idle chatter, more between Yoshimo and Angelo than herself. Isabel didn't mind the exclusion – her thoughts remained preoccupied elsewhere. She thought about Bayle's offer and Yoshimo's suspicions about the Shadow Thieves. She knew he was probably right, but the question of _why_ still eluded her. It was all so _convenient_ and Isabel couldn't escape that nagging feeling that someone was pulling her strings. It was a feeling she had come to despise.

But what could she do otherwise? She sighed inwardly. The alternative was to abandon Imoen to her fate and that was simply unacceptable. She would not allow it. _I won't make a death offering for Imoen too,_ she thought with savage determination. _I'll do anything, but I won't do that._ Even as she made the promise, part of her idly wondered just how far she would be willing to go to keep it. Her eyes fell upon Angelo.

Noticing her staring, Angelo met her gaze squarely. She had wondered earlier at his apparent lack of curiosity; now she asked herself if it had been just that – an appearance. Because, right now, there were so many questions lurking just beneath the surface of that look. Questions to which Isabel didn't know the answers. But she gave him eye for eye anyway, until he nodded to something behind her. Following the direction of his gaze, she glanced over her shoulder to see a half-elven woman coming down the stairwell. Isabel turned back to the two men before downing her wine in one swallow.

"Well lads, feel free to say a prayer for me," she said and went off to face a dragon.

xxx

Jaheira descended the stairs down to the Five Flagons' busy common room, gracing anyone who dared to look at her with a fierce glare. She could not describe precisely why she resented each and every single one of these noisy, ignorant city louts – it was as if every word, every laugh, every movement was a note sung out of key. The jovial atmosphere of the tavern mocked her, grating on nerves already rubbed raw. Jaheira found herself longing for the gentle quiet of the woods and the trees with each passing moment – their sojourn in the countryside between the de'Arnise barony and Athkatla had been all too brief – and yet, a part of her doubted even her beloved nature could offer anything but a fleeting reprieve from the dull, aching emptiness that emanated from somewhere deep in her chest.

Her eyes roved across the room, finally settling on a familiar head of auburn curls. Isabel was joined by two others, including the quiet, but genial thief who seemed to have attached himself to their group. The girl had noticed her entrance almost immediately, and was on her feet in an instant. Jaheira felt her skin prickle with irritation at the sight of the wary smile plastered on her face. She recognised it instantly; it was the smile Isabel had been wearing around her for days now, treating her as if she were a delicate piece of china with a sign about her neck declaring, 'Handle With Care'. Her scowl deepened as Isabel approached.

"So, I see you've returned," Jaheira noted, her irritation already creeping into her voice. She really wished it wouldn't, especially when she saw the set of Isabel's jaw at her tone. But anger it seemed, was the only thing that thrived in the gaping hole in her heart.

"I have, and actually, I need to talk to you for a moment–" she began, but Jaheira cut her off.

"And our business with the de'Arnise girl is finished then?"

Isabel clucked her tongue in annoyance. "Yes, 'our business' is done."

"Good."

The girl gave a derisive snort. "Good? Her father is dead, Jaheira. He's dead, and she barely even gets to mourn him because some stupid law somewhere says a woman can't inherit and now she's probably going to lose her home as well. Hells, I went to his _funeral_ so I could ask her for money! What kind of person does that? Believe me, there's nothing 'good' about any of this."

"Not all of us can afford the luxury of mourning." Khalid's face flickered behind her vision, and she pushed it away quickly.

"I know that," the girl replied with a heavy sigh. "I _do _know that."

Jaheira refused to meet her gaze. She didn't want to see the pity in those extraordinary dark eyes of hers. Instead, her eyes drifted over the common room and toward their table. Yoshimo was leaning over the table to talk to his companion, but kept one eye on her and Isabel. As for the other – she hesitated. There was something familiar about the way he regarded her warily and his right leg was twitching underneath the table like a rabbit. He was nervous, she realised. Why was he so nervous?

"Anyway, like I said before, there's something we need to discuss –" Isabel was still talking and very quickly too. Jaheira frowned. It was almost as if she was nervous herself. She glanced back at the second man. If she could just put her finger on it...

It hit her like she was being doused in ice cold water. He had looked so different in his clean cut uniform and captain's insignia. He had not been nervous then; he had lounged behind that heavy desk, interest scarcely registering in his golden-brown eyes as he read out her execution order. And in the slanting, unearthly werelights of the Undercity, he had simply looked desperate. But there was no mistaking his identity.

"Silvanus help me," she whispered. "Is that who I think it is?"

Isabel bit her lip. "Well it depends on who you think – Jaheira, _no!_" But Jaheira was already launching herself across the room toward her former enemy.

"_Wretch!_" she hissed, drawing the knife at her hip. Isabel reacted without thinking. She threw her body at Jaheira, colliding painfully with the half-elven woman as they fell back against one of the tables. The sound of chairs skidding backwards and ale spilling onto the floor filled the air. Some of the patrons shouted abuse at them, but all seemed to possess the good sense to stay out of their way.

"What do you think you are doing?" she cried, still seething and fighting the other woman's iron grip. She could see and feel the hard muscle of Isabel's body straining to hold her back, but why she was so determined to get between her brother's lackey and the sharp end of a blade, eluded her.

"I guess this means she remembers me," Isabel heard Angelo's drawl from behind her.

"Oh, shut the hell up Angelo!" As much as she would have loved nothing more than to glare at him into submissive silence, she didn't dare take her eyes off Jaheira. The druid's face was a rigid mask of fury. "Jaheira put the knife down."

"Isabel! Get the hell off me! Don't you realise who this is?"

"Of course I know who he is! He came here with _me_!"

That stunned her. Her grip on Isabel's shoulders slackened slightly, confusion plain in her grey eyes. "What did you say?"

The red-haired girl pursed her lips, her own grasp on the other woman as firm as ever, although when she spoke her voice was softened. "I said he came here with me. _I_ brought him here Jaheira."

"_You_ did?"

"Yeah, I did."

Jaheira shoved Isabel off of her violently. She recovered her balance quickly, but consciously respected the older woman's space. Yet, Jaheira noted coldly, maintained her position between herself and Angelo. The man in question was on his feet, eyes darting between the two women as they faced down each other like knights before a joust – but completely devoid of any agreement to play fair. Yoshimo stood next to him, his own confusion evident in the angular planes of his face. Jaheira turned her icy gaze back to Isabel, searching the girl's features for a sign, any sign, that this wasn't part of some elaborate hoax.

She was sorely disappointed.

"Isabel," in a tone that was both venomous and brooked no disagreement, "get out of my way."

Isabel swallowed visibly. "No."

"I'm going to give that spineless murderer what he deserves. And this time, I'm going to make damn sure he stays dead."

"No one's killing anyone. Jaheira, put the knife down or I'll put it down for you."

Her eyes glittered dangerously. "Is that a threat?"

She didn't answer. _Which was an answer in of itself, wasn't it?_

"Oi!" Startled, Jaheira glanced down to see the portly halfling innkeeper glaring up at them. The sight would have been funny were it not for the loaded crossbow he held pointed at her chest. "That's enough out of both of ye, understand? Now, if you two don't mind, I have a bar to run and whatever issues the pair of you have, I'll not have them disturbing my patrons! So I think ye shall best be decidin' to take your bloody brawl outside, before I throw you all out on your arses!"

Isabel nodded curtly, still balanced on the balls of her feet as if she expected Jaheira to make another move. Not that she was wrong to make the assumption, Jaheira thought sourly.

"You heard the man. Yoshimo, take Angelo outside. Don't let him leave your sight. Jaheira, perhaps we should discuss this further in _private_?"

The men obeyed silently, Angelo pausing only once to glance back at the woman who had just thrown herself between him and death.

Yoshimo clasped his shoulder lightly. "Come friend. Much as I hate to miss a cat fight, we should do as the lady says, yes?" He nodded, and together with the bounty hunter, stepped into the late afternoon sun.


	5. A Lesson in Adulthood

**4 – A Lesson in Adulthood**

Isabel steered Jaheira by the elbow into her private suite, careful not to slam the door behind them. Her mouth was drawn in a thin, taut line; this was not a conversation she was relishing.

The suite itself was chilly – the night before, she had simply tumbled into bed fully clothed, too tired to care about the lack of warmth and thus the hearth had not been lit in almost a week. She surveyed the room briefly. Tangerine sunlight shafted through the window in a criss-cross pattern that left almost as much in shadow as it did illuminate. She purposely ignored the fact that her clothes and meagre belongings were carelessly strewn across the floor and that she had still neglected to make her bed. The chaos made it feel homier anyway. Glancing up at Jaheira, she half expected the woman to chastise her for her untidy housekeeping. Instead, the tall half elf was fuming, glaring daggers at her from across the room with undisguised anger. Pink spots stained her olive skin and her almond shaped grey-green eyes were thunderous. _If looks could kill..._

"You'd better have a damn good explanation for what just happened in there!" she all but spat, rounding on Isabel almost immediately. The girl sighed inwardly, wishing fervently that the ground would swallow her whole and spare her the verbal lashing she was in for. After all, the only thing in Faerun sharper than Jaheira's blade was her tongue.

"Me? What about you, Jaheira? Do you think you could have found a way to make a bigger scene?"

"That man," she pointed her finger at the door, "was one of your psychopathic brother's closest allies. He is a corrupt, morally bankrupt, good-for-nothing piece of dirt. He was an accomplice to your own foster-father's murder, for Silvanus' sake! Oh, and my favourite part, _he tried to kill us!_"

"Are you done?" Isabel folded her arms across her chest as she watched Jaheira's fury crescendo.

"No I am not done! Have you taken complete leave of your senses, girl?"

_Yes. _"No."

"Then for the love of all that is holy, _why?_"

Isabel's knuckles were white as she linked her hands in front of her, biting down on her lip until she tasted the familiar metallic tang of blood. She barely knew herself the answer to Jaheira's question. Why had she done this? All she knew was that her best friend was missing and somehow, for some unfathomable reason, she believed Angelo might help her get her back.

She doubted such an answer would placate the woman who stood before her now.

"I didn't kill him," she began slowly, her heart hammering in her rib cage, "because I'm thinking about hiring him."

It was one of those moments where the room fell deathly silent and she was unsurprised to discover she was holding her breath. The air was thick with trepidation. With the older woman's back turned toward the window Isabel found it difficult to read the expression in her shadowed face, but she had little doubt in her mind that it wasn't one of approval.

"I'm sorry, I must have misheard you," Jaheira's tone was as careful and measured as her own. "Surely you did not just say that you were contemplating having this – man – join us?"

"Jaheira –"

The look she gave Isabel was incredulous. "Angelo Dosan? _Angelo Dosan?_ Of all the crackpot, hair-brained, lunatic ideas Isabel, this one takes the cake!" She threw herself into a nearby chair and pinched the bridge of her nose as if she had a terrible headache. Isabel remained where she stood. Despite that she now led their group, it had not always been so. Before Sarevok, it had been Jaheira and Khalid who she had looked to for leadership. Of course, that had all been before Irenicus, and after they had found Khalid – well, Isabel had known then that Jaheira would not be stepping up to assume the burden of responsibility once more. But for all that, standing here before her mentor she still felt like she was sixteen again and in Gorion's office awaiting a scolding for one of her foolish pranks.

"We need help," she said finally. "We can't save Imoen by ourselves."

Jaheira snorted. "Neither can we hunt Irenicus with people we cannot trust."

"If he proves untrustworthy, then we'll him cut him loose."

"'If'? The man's nothing more than a dog. If your brother had said 'jump' he'd ask 'how high' and when Sarevok asked for your head on a platter he might as well of asked 'medium or well done'."

"Good then. You like bossing people around and giving orders; he likes taking them. You two should get along swell," Isabel replied with false brightness, though there was no levity in her friend's olive-skinned face.

"Isabel," Jaheira was shaking her head. "He _cannot_ be trusted. You must realise this."

"We don't know that. He might." The words felt feeble even before they left her mouth. It was hard to make a convincing argument for trusting Angelo when she shared more than a little in Jaheira's scepticism. But with twenty thousand crowns worth of guilt hanging over her head, trust, she decided, was a luxury she could ill afford.

"Really?" Jaheira's tone was caustic and positively dripping with sarcasm. "And out of curiosity, what reason did he offer for wanting to join with us?"

"He needed the work –"

"Isabel! You cannot possibly be so naive! He obviously has some other agenda."

"_Of course_ he has an agenda Jaheira!" she finally snapped in reply, her face flushing with anger. Holding back had never been her strong suit and the temper she had been fighting all day was close to breaking point. "After a year together you still think of me as a foolish child, still green and wet behind the ears. You might want to consider for a second that I actually know what I am doing!"

"Well, it would certainly be a first!" The other woman sniped back.

"You know what? We need this. We _need_ it, alright? We don't have enough muscle for the type of mercenary work we take. I'm sorry that you don't like the idea of having Angelo on board – the gods know I'm not thrilled about it either – but he's cheap and we're poor so we don't get to be choosy. And you don't get to blame me for it either."

"You're right, Isabel. I'm _so_ sorry my husband had the temerity to die and leave this party one sword arm short!"

The accusation hit her way below the belt and Isabel found herself blinking away angry and unexpected tears.

"That was unfair," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady.

"No, what's unfair is you even thinking that you could – replace – Khalid with this vermin." Jaheira replied in a tone laden with scorn and bitterness.

"No, what's unfair is my role in this sorry mess!" her temper finally snapping as she shouted at the other woman, dark eyes blazing. "Me, constantly having to make allowances for your grief! Tiptoeing around your feelings because Khalid is dead. I wanted to take on mercenaries before we accepted Nalia's request to save her home, but you wouldn't have it. Instead you had us go into that keep all gung-ho with just the three of us and less than a handful of surviving guards and look what happened. You almost _died_ because you still fight like Khalid is there to save you. And then it becomes all _my_ fault when the job is botched and we have to pay healing costs, as if it were my recklessness that got us into the mess in the first place! You undermine every decision I make, but you're not prepared to take up the reins are you? No, that responsibility is on me now."

Jaheira stared back at her in shock, eyes wide with pain. Isabel turned away, shame rapidly consuming the anger that had burned her cheeks. She had never hated herself more than in that moment. Whatever Jaheira had said and done, she was still her friend – her _grieving_ friend, and her words had been unforgivably callous. Cruel.

"Allowances for my grief?" she repeated. The hurt in her voice felt like someone had punched Isabel in the gut.

"I didn't mean it –" Isabel began, but the druid was already out the door. The girl stared at the empty frame for a moment before turning back to the window. Looking through the glass, Athkatla was nothing more than a hundred tiny lights, winking at her from across the river under a sky painted in broad brush strokes of violet and orange. It was beautiful beneath the dying sun, this city that had sheltered her enemies and robbed her of her friends.

Is this what being a leader meant? Hurting people you loved? Letting them down? Isabel frowned as she gazed over the cityscape. Why was it never a choice between good and bad, but always bad and worse? And could you ever really learn to tell the difference?

Out of the corner of her eye she caught her reflection, only the girl she expected to see in the mirror was nowhere to be found. Instead, a young woman stared back out at her, the last rays of sunshine staining her auburn hair the colour of dried blood. Her eyes were as pitch. The woman in the mirror felt alien, a stranger she scarcely recognized, and she felt a pang for the girl who once would have stood there. The girl who followed rather than led. The girl who didn't know her father was a god.

_You wanted the responsibility, Bels._ She thought bitterly. _Well congratulations, it's yours to keep now._

Turning on heel, she swept out of the room. This time she slammed the door shut with all the force she could muster.

xxx

The common room was considerably more crowded than it had been earlier in the afternoon, doubtless due in no small part to the sun going down. The tavern was in full lively form this evening. Isabel's eyes drifted over the mix of patrons – mostly locals who had stopped by to share a drink with their neighbours, but she also spotted a couple of off-duty guards drinking their fill. At least she assumed they were off-duty – after what little she had seen of Athkatla's law enforcement she didn't exactly put a terrible amount of faith in their sense of professionalism. Isabel could see no evidence of her brawl either – the halfling pair who ran the Five Flagons were nothing if not efficient it seemed. She scanned the room for any of her companions to no avail and the small hope she had been nursing that Jaheira would be there was swiftly snuffed out. She desperately wanted to apologise, to find some way of taking back the horrible things she had said to her. But Jaheira was nowhere to be found – if she had been in her room she had given Isabel no indication of it when the girl had knocked on her door. A tiny, traitorous voice whispered in the back of her mind that Jaheira mightn't even come back. After all, why would she want anything to do with a person who sneered at her pain, as she had? Isabel squeezed her eyes shut and promptly pictured clubbing the voice round the head with a stick.

All she needed was a stiff drink. Something nice and strong that would burn all the way down to her belly and settle her rattling nerves. Pulling up a stool at the bar, her fingers drummed listlessly against the polished grain of the wood as she waited to be served. She half-listened to the young minstrel perched by the hearth as she regaled her audience with tale and song, the simple melody her fingers strummed on the sitar oddly relaxing. Soon her fingers were tapping unconsciously to the beat.

"If there's any broken furniture in your rooms, I'll not be paying for it." Isabel looked up, startled. The innkeeper, Samuel Thunderburp, met her gaze with a pair of hazel, no nonsense eyes from across the bar. It took her a second to realise he was referring to her earlier scuffle with Jaheira.

"Oh," she said. "No, nothing broken this time. Sorry about before." The halfling huffed. He looked rather strange, standing at almost eye level before her. Did he have a box behind the bar, she wondered?

"Here, look," she rummaged for her purse and pulled out a couple of coins. "To cover any damage. It won't happen again, I promise." _Hopefully_, she added in her mind with a mental cross of her fingers. Keeping on good terms with the management was always an imperative when you planned on a lengthy stay. Isabel also made a mental note to talk to Samuel about renting an extra room for Angelo.

The coin seemed to satisfy Samuel, and his hazel eyes softened. "Ah don't twist yourself into too many knots over it lass. I was once an adventurer me self, and I know better than most how rough the Life can be." He deftly whipped out a short glass and poured into it a dark amber liquid. "Here, lass. Drink up."

Isabel's lips quirked in a small smile of gratitude before she downed the liquor in one healthy swallow. Samuel chuckled and poured her another one.

"You haven't perchance seen the woman I err... fought with, have you?" she asked.

"Sorry, no sign of her down here this evening. But it's fair busy tonight, I might have missed her." A slight frown creased his brow. "That skinner fellow may be a scary son of a bitch, but he's doing wonders for business. Wish I could be happier 'bout it."

"The murderer is still on the loose? I'd have thought the law would have caught up with him by now." The neighbourhood had been suffering from a string of grisly killings for several weeks now. Was that why the guard had been restricting incoming traffic this afternoon?

Samuel shook his head. "No such luck lass. The local law thought the murders were just some part of the damned guild war, but now they're not so sure they be related. Heh, I coulda told them that. Why would thieves flay a man's flesh from his bones? Makes not one bit of sense –" he stopped mid-sentence and motioned quickly for Isabel to stay silent, his head cocked to one side as if he was trying to listen for something specific. A broad smile crept onto his ruddy features. "Hold onto that thought, lass. Trust me, ye won't want to miss this."

Curiosity piqued, Isabel followed the direction of Samuel's wide smile and found it aimed at the minstrel by the hearth. The girl's sitar now rested at her feet, her face open and eager as she began spinning a tale of what seemed to be her latest adventure in the Firewine, an old, presumably haunted elven ruin that lay north in the Heartlands. Isabel watched with faint bemusement. There was no rule that stated that those who followed the Life couldn't be attractive (personally, she hoped she was proof of the fact), but the girl's fair skin was unmarred by any of the scars Isabel would have associated with a seasoned adventurer, and nor did her sky blue eyes possess the hardened experience of one. In short, she would not have pegged the minstrel for a dungeon crawler.

But she had the knack for storytelling, there was no denying it – there was a light, rhythmic, almost musical quality to her words that didn't demand so much as coax one's attention. It was a shame the effect was marred by her obvious lack of sobriety – the half-empty wine glass she nursed in her hand was _definitely_ not her first.

And Isabel was not the only one in the room who had noticed either. The crowded common room listened with a sort of amused indulgence – rather like parents who allow their child to make a spectacle of their self so that they might share a laugh at their expense. Several jeered with the sort of familiarity that made Isabel suspect the bard was no stranger to either this inn nor her bottle.

"... And so what was a poor, poor heroine to do, in such a situation? Hurling curses upon their foul heads, I flung my torch into the face of their leader, and dashed for the exit, all the way, the damned kobold beasts nipping at my heels."

Isabel blinked. Had she said _kobolds?_

"But, once in the full glory of the light of day, the creatures slinked back into their lair –"

"You ran away from a pack of _kobolds?_" one of the patrons interrupted incredulously.

"Hey lass, who taught you how to fight? Mightn't be too late to get a refund!" joked another. The room rippled with murmurs of assent.

The bard's face fell a little. "Hey, there were a lot of them alright? I'm just one lone woman."

"Some intrepid adventurer!"

With a derisive roll of her eyes, the girl stalked off sourly to the chorus of raucous laughter. Isabel let out a low whistle as she turned back to the bartender, who was shaking his head ruefully. He chuckled at her expression.

"I'm fond of the lass, make no mistake," he explained with a half-smile. "But why she insists on tellin' that ridiculous tale I'll never know."

"She's told it more than once? You're joking, surely?"

Samuel shrugged. "What can I say? Ye can't tell the young anythin' these days." His smile broadened into something close to sly. "But ye feel a bit better after hearin' it now, aye?"

"Well, I guess I do at that," she grinned. She was just beginning to feel the effects of the drink in the slow, comforting warmth spreading from her abdomen that managed to dull the edge of her day. His earlier antipathy at her brawl all but forgotten, Samuel chatted away easily with her, continuing to fill her in on the local gossip and the Bridge District murderer as he bustled away behind the bar. She was just wondering if it mightn't be a good idea to see if there was any opportunity for work in the whole thing, when a pair of voices floating over the din caught her attention again.

"– So you're saying I'm a kobold huh? Just 'cause I'm short, I must be some growling, snivelling beast –"

"Oh why don't you go stow your inferiority complex where the sun don't shine, hmm?" The bard was back and tiredly addressing one of her more insistent hecklers – an angry halfling who appeared to be under the impression her story was an intentional crack at his height. He followed her all the way back to the bar, gimlet eyes bright with ire.

"Oh, so I have an inferiority complex because I'm small? Do you talk to all little folk that way –"

"Sam!" The look she threw the ruddy-faced bartender was pleading. Samuel tossed his dish cloth over a shoulder, planted his hands on the bench and fixed the halfling with a stern, "I-Mean-Business" frown.

"Jerry Jamtoes, pipe down and leave the girl alone. I ain't gonna keep serving ye if ye insist on hassling the patrons."

"But she was calling me short!" he protested.

"Jerry, you're a halfling. Ye _are_ short. Now bugger off." With a parting glare that would probably have been quite forceful had it not been aimed squarely at the bard's kneecaps, Jerry retreated back to his table. The girl sighed exaggeratedly and pulled up a pew at the bar. Her battered sitar occupied the seat next to her. Up close, Isabel could see that she had lightly touched her lips with colour and the bright red shirt she wore had been visited by a darning needle and thread more than once. With faint surprise, she recognised her as the woman Yoshimo had been flirting with earlier that afternoon.

"Much obliged to you Sam." Samuel favoured her with a wink.

"Thing nothin' of it. A refill lass?" She grinned in reply.

"Please."

"Ah Keto my dear, that's precisely what I love about ye. Every copper ye manage to con outta my patrons ye always spend back at me bar."

"Con?" she replied loftily. "Frankly, I find that insinuation insulting Samuel Thunderburp!"

"No offense my tippling talespinner, but if ye make _any_ coin off telling that Gods-forsaken story, it'd be a safe bet to say there be some definite swindling going on."

Keto's face was the picture of righteous indignation and the look she graced the bartender with left him with little doubt regarding her thoughts on the subject. Tossing her copper hair over her shoulder, she threw a glance at Isabel.

"How about you stranger? You here to heckle a poor, defenceless bard?"

Isabel raised her eyebrows. "Heckle? I wouldn't dream of it."

"Well, that's a nice change."

"After all, kobolds are frightening little buggers," she continued more than a little heartlessly. "Liches and dragons trip over themselves running away from the darn yappers, they do."

"Or not." Isabel felt instantly contrite at the perceptible chill the girl's tone had just acquired. It was hardly fair of her to take out her ill mood on this stranger, especially when she'd already borne the mockery and scorn of the whole tavern. Besides, the girl was a redhead – a fact which, if nothing else, made Isabel predisposed to liking her. Reaching out a hand, she caught the bard's sleeve.

"Hey, wait a second," she cleared her throat. "Look, I'm sorry alright? It's been a bad day for me."

She almost appeared ready to dismiss her apology as she turned to glance back at her. But something in her face shifted slightly when she caught her eye and she held Isabel's rueful, dark-eyed gaze for a long, appraising moment.

"Buy me a drink to make up for it?" There was humour aplenty in those twinkling blue eyes, Isabel thought wryly.

"I'm poor."

"I'm poorer. Did you hear my story?"

Isabel sent her eyes heavenward and waved Samuel over. "Oh what the hell. Redheads should stick together anyhow." Keto broke into a broad, inviting smile and scooted her stool closer as Samuel went to fetch them another round.

"I'll second that. I'm Keto Riven, a bard of middling talent." She extended her hand and with a courtly bow asked, "And to whom do I owe the pleasure?"

Isabel found herself grinning in spite of herself. "Isabel," she replied with a friendly shake. Samuel laughed merrily as he returned with their drinks.

"And I see ye've swindled another, Keto," he teased, pushing the wine cup toward her and Keto poked out her tongue in response. Isabel ducked her head so they wouldn't notice her smile. There was something oddly comforting about the pair's easy, good-natured banter and she felt one of the twisted knots in her stomach loosen.

"Now ye be careful now," Samuel directed this warning to Isabel, but sent the other girl a conspiratorial wink first. "This lass will drink ye under the table and all on your copper, too, she's that shameless."

"Oh tosh," Keto swatted at him dismissively, as she sipped from her cup. "Don't you have a bar to run?"

"Aye lass, that I do. Although some nights it really does feel like a single customer service." With that parting quip, Samuel jostled off to attend to his other patrons.

"I think he means I drink too much," Keto said by way of explanation. Isabel shrugged. Not really knowing either of them, she couldn't exactly comment. Propping up her head with an elbow, she studied the young woman beside her.

"So, is it true?" she asked.

"What? That I drink too much?" Keto rubbed at her neck absently. "Quite probably."

"No actually, I meant your story. The one about having travelled as far north as Firewine Bridge."

"Oh." She looked a tad bashful at her unintended admission, but then shrugged it off with apparent disregard. "Well, yes, it is. I've travelled a fair bit actually. I'll admit that particular incident wasn't my _finest_ hour, but I fancy I'm not a completely hopeless adventurer."

Her forehead creased slightly. "Then, if you don't mind me asking, why..." and her question tapered off into an awkward silence. Isabel really had no idea how to ask why someone not completely hopeless would run away from a kobold. Well, not tactfully anyhow. But Keto seemed to understand what she was getting at, if the dry smile that touched her lips was anything to go by.

"It's okay," she reassured her. "Believe me, it's nothing I've not heard before."

"I'm sorry, but _kobolds_?" Isabel smiled weakly. "Really? I mean you don't look as though you couldn't have held your own in a scrape."

Keto sighed, her easy smile fading a little. One of her hands found the sitar beside her and she lightly trailed her fingers across the worn wood in something akin to a caress. "Hey, no one said I was proud of it. It's just... well, it's a small thing. Tiny, really."

"What is it?" she inquired curiously.

"I hate pain." Her tone was utterly matter-of-fact. Isabel's eyebrows shot right up – whatever answer she had been expecting, Keto's certainly was not it. The girl rushed on. "I mean, I _really_ hate it. I hate being beaten, I hate being burned, I hate being shot at and wounded and just the general prospect of death doesn't hold a great deal of appeal for me either. Unfortunately all that tends to go with the territory of adventuring so..." her voice trailed off.

"Then why do it at all? I mean, if you hate it so much, why bother?"

Keto smiled. "For the story," she said simply.

Isabel watched the girl thoughtfully. She didn't like pain as much as the next person, but to be afraid of it? To be so fearful of being hurt that it stood in the way of what she loved? Circumstance rather than design had forced her onto the road early in life and Isabel had consequently not really given much thought to her current occupation. But here sat a young girl so clearly in love with her barding, and yet couldn't quite push herself past this barrier that stood between her and the fulfilment of her passion. Her eyes were drawn again to the girl's long fingers, still absently stroking her instrument. There was something almost mournful in that simple expression of movement – as if she was just brushing her fingers against something she desperately wanted but ultimately was too had afraid to grasp with both hands.

Keto smiled wryly at Isabel's pensiveness. "You folk act like the fact that just because I don't fancy walking up to Death, tapping him on the shoulder and politely inviting him to take tea with me makes me somehow less of an adventurer."

Isabel had to laugh at that. Perhaps had events unfolded differently, she too might have adopted Keto's different and quite arguably more rational view on adventuring. Their conversation continued to flow easily, as did the wine, and more and more, Isabel found herself quickly warming to the quirky young bard. But in the back of her mind, a part of her still wondered if the minstrel would ever find a story worth bleeding for.

"So how do you furnish your story repertoire then?" She asked, taking another draft from her glass, and added innocently, "I assume of course that not all of them are tales of your valorous flights."

Keto's mouth curved into a sly grin. "Well, I do admit, it helps to occasionally engage in lively conversation with interesting people."

"Oh, so the point being I might know a tale worth telling?"

"Exactly. After all, what kind of enterprising nation would Amn be if bards such as myself didn't pilfer shamelessly from the life experiences of their drinking companions?"

"Yours is truly a noble profession, Keto," Isabel murmured with a smile. She really was beginning to like this odd young woman. Keto chuckled.

"Why thank you, Isabel. But I am right about you, aren't I?" Her keen blue eyes were suddenly fixed on her face with uncharacteristic sharpness. "You have a story. And I must confess I'd be lying if I said I'm not dying to know what it is."

_Or maybe I spoke too soon, _Isabel thought uneasily, masking her discomfort with a generous swallow of wine. She had thought the girl too deep in her cups for such a piercing observation. But if there was any malevolence in Keto's admission, Isabel could not detect it. The girl simply sat, waiting patiently for her to answer. _Apparently she does know how to not talk_, Isabel thought dryly. It was simply a talent she chose not to exercise.

"It's really not that interesting," she said evasively. Keto gave her a measured look.

"Oh I have trouble believing that. I saw you earlier you know, with that whole tussle with the half elven woman?" The girl winced at the memory, recalling once again with painful freshness her dreadful fight with Jaheira. "Is that fellow you threw yourself in front of really a murderer?" she asked suddenly.

Isabel looked up at her, startled a little at the abruptness of her question. She hadn't really thought of it like that – in her mind she had prevented Jaheira from killing someone certainly, but she hadn't quite made the connection that in doing so, she had saved Angelo's life. It was an unsettling perspective. "Yes," she answered honestly. "Yes, he was a murderer."

The bard's expression was thoughtful and betrayed little. Isabel squirmed uncomfortably under her stare. She didn't know what Keto made of her answer, surely strange by anyone's standards, and perhaps even more curiously, she was surprised that what the bard thought of her even mattered. Eventually, Keto simply shrugged. Whatever her judgement, it remained locked behind those sparkling blue eyes. "Well, at any rate if you don't mind me saying, you and your half-elven friend are very attractive women," she said finally.

Isabel blinked in surprise. Again, Keto had left her with a completely unexpected observation. "Thanks... I guess?"

Any outward evidence her probing curiosity was now all but banished from her features. "All I meant is, that being that you're both pretty, eligible women, you could probably find a better-looking fellow to fight over," she said, rolling her eyes.

Isabel stared at her blankly for a long moment. _Is she saying that...?_ Incredulity quickly gave way to laughter, and before she knew it, her face was buried in her hands as she tried in vain to suppress the rising tide of giggles that shook her body. The very _idea_ that she could have decked another woman in a romantic tiff over Angelo Dosan was matched only by the notion that that other woman could have been Jaheira. Unruffled, Keto simply grinned, thinking how funny it was that a woman who clearly carried the weight of the world on her shoulders could still laugh like a four-year-old.

"Ah Isabel! I see you've met the enchanting Miss Riven!" Yoshimo's smooth tenor sounded behind her. His eyes twinkled mischievously as she jumped in her seat, startled by his sudden appearance. He was too good at sneaking up on her and appeared to openly delight in the fact. It was all friendly she knew, but Isabel idly wondered if it wasn't a sign that she was falling dangerously out of practice. After all, Angelo had caught her off guard too. At that thought, her eyes immediately sought his tall figure, but could see no sign of him in the tavern.

"You ladies have been enjoying yourselves, I trust?" he asked, noting her flushed face and their collection of empty glasses on the bar. Isabel redirected her attention back to the thief and ruefully returned his grin.

"Quite. I honestly can't remember the last time I've genuinely laughed like that." Her dark eyes were warm and her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.

"You were right Yoshimo," Keto remarked, smiling over the rim of her glass. "I do like her."

Isabel started. _What...?_ Puzzlement flickered across her face and her gaze darted back and forth between the bounty hunter and the bard, trying to figure out the unspoken joke the pair were sharing at her expense. When understanding finally dawned upon her, she punched Yoshimo in the arm.

"You rascal!" she accused him. She had finally identified what was in that first look Keto had given her – it had been recognition. "You told her about me, didn't you?" She turned back toward Keto who was chuckling quietly. "You knew who I was before I even sat down."

"Relax, he didn't betray any of your deep, dark secrets," she assured her. "He just told me that he worked for a very interesting woman and he thought that I would like to meet her. He was right by the way." The copper-haired bard jumped abruptly at the sound of Samuel calling her name, and she peeked over her shoulder to see the halfling bartender nodding toward the hearth. With an exaggerated sigh, she scooped up her instrument. "Sorry, that's my cue – I've another set to play if I want to pay my tab. Isabel," Isabel stood and she grasped her hand warmly, "it was a real pleasure to meet you. Yoshimo." She turned to the bounty hunter at her side and coquettishly winked one big blue eye at him before pushing her way through the throng.

Yoshimo's gaze followed the bard for a moment, and then he was looking up at her intently. "So," he began, his onyx eyes riveted on hers as he adopted Keto's abandoned seat. "What do you think?"

Isabel shrugged, swivelling so she faced him properly. "What do I think of what?"

"Keto, of course."

"She's cute. Entirely too good for you." He rolled his eyes heavenward.

"That is not what I meant."

Her dark eyes widened with surprise. "Surely you don't mean – you mean to say you want me to hire her?"

"Why not?" Yoshimo asked. "You said yourself we were taking on some more people, why not her?"

Isabel's frown was touched with no small measure of exasperation. "Yoshimo, if you want to sleep with her I'm not going to stop you. I'd be a little surprised if you could get her to stop talking long enough to get her into bed, but that's hardly the point."

"And what is the point exactly?"

"The point is, is that I'm not going to ask someone to join our group simply because you want a warm body to share your bedroll," she replied bluntly.

Yoshimo folded his arms, his eyebrows raised gracefully. "Setting aside your delightful sense of romanticism Isabel, that is _not_ why I suggest we bring her on board," he informed her in a clipped tone. "I believe she could be an asset to this group."

Isabel stared at him in disbelief. "Seriously? I mean I like her, don't get me wrong, but _seriously_? The girl who is so afraid of pain she hasn't seen past the front door of a dungeon in her life?"

"Hear me out. I know she's not terribly experienced, but you know as well as I that experienced mercenaries expect a significantly better wage than we can afford to pay right now."

"And to think you scorned _my_ sense of romance," she remarked sarcastically. He held up his hand.

"Please allow me to finish. She's not without some formal training, not to mention she told me she'd picked up more than a little magic. I don't need to tell you how useful that could be."

Isabel looked away from the persistent force of his stare; her eyes resting instead on Keto's rosy face as she entertained the room with a tale about a reluctant hero and his quest for vengeance. The irony wasn't lost on her. The girl was so green, she thought as she mulled the idea over in her mind. But perhaps not as naive as she had originally supposed.

"Tell me it is not that damned kobold story that is putting you off. Is it?" Yoshimo asked her worriedly. Isabel studied him for a moment.

"Why are you pushing this so hard?"

Hesitation and self-doubt clouded his face for a brief second. "I guess it's just a gut feeling," he said finally, linking his hands in his lap. "For some reason, I believe she is supposed to come with us. I cannot explain it better than that. And if you find you cannot trust my judgement, then perhaps you can trust your own. You did say she made you laugh." He offered the last statement almost hopefully. She wondered at his insistence – but then, wasn't she considering Angelo's offer for reasons not so far from his? There were practical reasons there too, but ultimately she was just relying upon an intuitive sense that told her it was the right decision to make.

"You make me laugh too," she reminded him dryly. "But I do trust your judgement. Tell her to stop by my room once she's finished if she's interested." Yoshimo's smile reached all the way to his eyes.

"I am glad to hear it... thank you for trusting me in this." He clasped her arm kindly. "Now, if you'll refrain from biting my head off, might I suggest you find a pillow for that lovely head of yours? You look ready to keel over on the spot, my dear."

Rolling her eyes in response to _that_ lovely little observation, she left him to his ruminations and proceeded to climb the stairs up to her rooms. Her ears rung in the eerie quiet of the corridor after so long spent in the raucous common room and the darkness made her feel suddenly weary, as if the shadows themselves were inviting her surrender to oblivion. Padding softly along the weathered floorboards, she found herself pausing at Jaheira's door. There was no way of knowing if her friend waited behind it. Her knuckles rapped gently against the wood.

"Jaheira," she bit her lip. "I don't know if you can hear me, or if you even want to hear me right now, but – I just wanted to say – I'm sorry."

No response. Crestfallen, Isabel tucked her hands into her pockets and stared dejectedly at her boots as she walked the five paces to her own door. When she lifted her eyes to unlock it, it didn't surprise her that it was Angelo's dark figure that waited. Disappointing perhaps, but not surprising.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off first. "Please don't. I'm tired and there's nothing you have to say that I would want to hear, I think." He acquiesced, but did nothing to hide the unspoken question in his face. Isabel leaned briefly on the frame of her doorway, unbidden tears threatening to undo her. "I'll see you tomorrow," she answered finally and closed the door on his face.

If she was going to cry she was damn well going to do so in private this time.

xxx

Angelo was unsteady on his feet as he shakily felt for the handle to the room he now shared with Yoshimo. Leaning back heavily against the door, he closed his eyes to the inky darkness while his knees buckled beneath him and with it the last vestiges of his carefully maintained composure. Relief was going to make him sick. His lungs were drawing in and expelling air in long, ragged breaths as he tried in vain to slow down the pounding beat of his heart.

He couldn't believe it. He didn't understand how he could still be alive. With every step, in every moment of this day he had truly believed deep down that he would not live to see the next. That the justification he had offered her would not be enough. He had thought she would have killed him in the graveyard, and if not then, he had been all but positive she would have made good on her promise to stand by and allow the druid to gut him on the tavern floor.

But she hadn't. She had tackled her friend into a table instead.

Could Tamoko have been right about her after all?

Unable to suppress the rising tide of nausea, Angelo lurched for the privy and vomited. He didn't stop until his quivering stomach was completely emptied.


	6. Watchmen

_Author's note: Many apologies for the long delay in this chapter - been dealing with exams, real life and all that jazz. This fic is still very much alive, I assure you!_

**5 – Watchmen**

Angelo was an early riser. It was an old habit leftover from his days in the army, and although Sembia was another lifetime away, his eyes still snapped open with the coming of dawn half expecting to see an angry drill sergeant glaring down at him, barking orders to stand ready for morning inspection. He blinked sluggishly at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to recall precisely where he was. All he knew was that he was filled with a vague, nagging feeling that he had recently done something either very silly or very stupid. Slowly, ever so slowly, the fog of sleep began to recede and that nagging feeling was replaced with a growing sense of dread. A low groan escaped his lips.

He had been both very silly _and_ very stupid it seemed.

Rolling out of bed proved to be a more difficult endeavour than he had first thought. For one thing, he didn't actually _have_ a bed – he had awoken in a hopeless tangle of sheets on the floor. Well, that explained why the ceiling looked so high at least. He rapped his head sharply on the bedpost next to him as went to get up and managed to only just succeed in stifling a curse when he remembered he was not alone. As he finally got to his feet, he cast a quick glance at the soundly sleeping thief on the bed. Yoshimo's face was the picture of contentment and Angelo had a momentary fancy to jerk off the warm coverlet and kick the sod out of bed. The pettiness passed as quickly as it had come, but Angelo couldn't help but compare the comfort of a soft mattress to the cold hard floor.

_Oh stow it Dosan, you're fussing like an old woman,_ he chided himself grumpily. _Since when have you been so delicate, hmm?_ Besides, Yoshimo was a good sort, he reckoned as he hunted through his small pack for a relatively clean shirt. It had been a pleasant surprise to learn he would be working with someone from home – easterners were so few and far between in these parts and after years with Tamoko he'd just assumed his luck in that department was tapped out. Not to mention the thief had offered no comment when he discovered Angelo pale and sweating on the washroom floor the previous night, choosing to ignore the embarrassing scene per that unspoken yet universal code of brotherhood. Nor had he asked any questions regarding his history with Isabel. Angelo respected a man who knew the wisdom of holding his tongue.

And he had to have questions. How could he not? Angelo slipped softly into the adjoining washroom, careful not to disturb his roommate. The events of yesterday played themselves out behind his eyes. No matter how many times he relived it, he was never quite sure he could believe what had happened. Everything had gone according to plan, and yet how funny that he had never truly expected it to come off? It was difficult to fathom the kind of person who would stay their hand when they had every motive and means at their disposal to act to the contrary. He sighed. Perhaps this is what years spent following two steps behind Sarevok Anchev did to you – he understood mercy only as an abstract concept, a weakness to be exploited.

Isabel Wren was not at all like her brother and Angelo wasn't sure if that didn't scare him all the more.

Regarding his reflection in the tarnished mirror, he allowed himself a small smile as he slipped on the shirt over his tattooed skin. The black initiation ink was a relic of a lifetime even longer past than Sembia, but even after all the intervening years, Angelo had to admit he still admired the artistry for which his flesh had been little more than a blank canvas. The reptilian whorls that encircled his arms and twisted over his torso mapped the topography of a chapter in his life he had been more than glad to leave behind in the collective dust heap of history – and yet, wasn't that the thing of it? They were like scars – the ever-present, physical reminders that your past was never really past, because in them you carried the memories of all the times when pain had forged who you were to become.

Wounds needed air; they needed to breathe before they could heal and the resulting scars often became something to take pride in – keepsakes of what had made you strong. But then, the deepest wounds, the ones that really mattered, were never the ones you could see. Like a broken heart, as long as you kept it hidden it might never truly heal – but sometimes, Angelo thought, eyes never quite finding their own in the glass, sometimes you might just be able to trick yourself into forgetting.

xxx

Angelo squinted in the bright sunlight, raising one hand up to shade his eyes against the mid-morning glare as he waited for Isabel. He watched from the opposite side of the square at the group huddled in the crisp autumn wind. Isabel's head was bent in quiet conversation with Yoshimo, whilst the other two women stood in silence; one rigidly stoic, the other mildly bemused.

The day so far had brought more questions than yielded answers. Isabel had taken advantage of their unconscious gathering for breakfast to hold a conference of sorts, and between begrudging bites of her porridge, she had introduced another newcomer – a young bard named Keto – and had filled them both in on the details of her plight in Amn. Her words had confirmed several of his suspicions and surprised him on other accounts. Whilst he had already learned of Imoen's arrest for a magical infraction against the city, he had not known that the mage she had recklessly fought had held them all in captivity for many weeks. He had always wondered why she had so mysteriously vanished from Baldur's Gate less than a month after that night – now he knew.

She also explained other things – such as the absence of the giant Rashemite swordsman and the Wychlaran, who along with Jaheira's husband, had died under this Irenicus' 'care.' Beyond that, Isabel did not elaborate, but Angelo would bet everything down to his last copper that some degree of torture had been involved. He felt he was beginning to better understand the haunted shadows he'd glimpsed play across her delicate features when she thought no one was looking.

Yet for all that she had said, it was what was unsaid that he kept careful note of. Like the fact that she turned to a thief she had known for what couldn't have been more than a month – probably less – for counsel before she asked the woman who had been by her side since she had started out on the road. Or that she and Jaheira had not exchanged even a cursory greeting over breakfast. He had little doubt in his mind what _that_ fight was about.

Keto waved a goodbye and true to this morning's form, the druid ignored Isabel completely. Yoshimo gripped her shoulder lightly in a manner that bespoke of an easy familiarity, before setting off with the others. She seemed to linger there for a moment, watching the retreating backs of her party, and then turning and making her way towards him. She was dressed simply, hands thrust into the pockets of a worn fawn coat over a dusky blue shirt and dark trousers. Her forehead was creased slightly in a frown.

"So they're off to pay your contact?" he confirmed. Isabel nodded.

"Yoshimo will make sure Bayle gets our instalment," she said shortly. Again, Angelo noted her reliance on the bounty hunter, rather than the druid. An image flickered briefly behind his vision, one of a blade drawn and the fierce grey-green eyes behind it. For the first time, the thought occurred to him that maybe Isabel _hadn't_ been able to talk her down last night.

He shoved down the tremor of panic that rippled through his stomach. _Keep your cool_, he told himself firmly. _You can't do anything about it now anyway, so just keep your cool._

Isabel eyed him speculatively. "Well?" she demanded. "Shall we get moving then?"

He nodded and they turned into one of the northern streets, travelling in the opposite direction that the rest of their party had. Their destination was the local guardhouse, where Isabel hoped she could secure a contract with the Watch to help investigate the Bridge District murders. There was a lot of merit in the idea, Angelo had thought. Although no official bounty had been posted, that didn't mean the guards wouldn't welcome a helping hand.

Isabel didn't appear to be in a talkative mood. She kept a brisk pace and her shoulders were squared like the weight of the world had settled upon them. Where yesterday he might have asked about the situation at hand, today, he didn't dare. After the brawl, he was acutely aware of just how precarious his position in Isabel's company was. He had gambled on _Isabel_, not her friends – had he wrongly assumed that they would follow her orders, despite reservations? It was possible, he thought. After all, everything in his experience had taught him that you did your damndest best not to question your superior – it had been that way back in the gangs, in the army, and never more so than working under the Anchevs. But Isabel ran a different sort of ship.

It would be ironic, he thought, if it turned out he had to spend more time watching his back within _this_ group than if he had stayed out of their way entirely.

Angelo sighed inwardly. There was so much about this girl that seemed foreign to him. He had thought he had her measure back in the graveyard. Now, he realised, it was simply that he had had a plan then. It had been a massive gamble to be sure, but he had known the game and the moves. However, in the scant twenty four hours he had spent in her company, she had managed to surprise him at every turn. He had sworn to himself that he would not make the mistake of underestimating her... but perhaps the greater mistake was thinking he could predict her behaviour at all. It wasn't just that she had saved his life – although, what _in the Nine Hells_ had prompted her to do _that_, he couldn't guess. It was the way that Jaheira had openly defied her. He almost shuddered, thinking what Sarevok would have done if he had pulled a number like that. Isabel hadn't backed down, but she hadn't fully resolved the problem either. And then, after everything, she had brought on another merc! Angelo conceded he scarcely knew the girl, but if she had ever been in an honest-to-Gods all-out fight in her life, he would label himself a fool and ship him to Matzica.

His eyes were drawn again to her, watching her stride purposefully, that fierce determination fixed in her dark eyes as if she believed through sheer force of will she could command the muddy Athkatlan streets to open up and release her friend. Angelo realised something: everything else about her might be a puzzle, but the way she walked, the fire lit in her eyes – that drive, he knew all too well. Her brother had walked the same way.

_What in the Hells have I gotten myself into?_

Somehow he doubted even the gods could answer that question.

xxx

"You want to _what?_"

"We want to help you out in the investigation," Isabel repeated in a tone that suggested she thought that the guardsman was a little bit slow.

Angelo stood silently behind her in the whitewashed, sparsely decorated office of the local Inspector – a role he gathered was roughly the equivalent of a local captain back in the Gate. His name was Aegisfield, and he had recognized him immediately as the same brusque, older guard who was in charge of questioning the district's incoming traffic the previous day. Unfortunately, Aegisfield had recognized them too.

"And why would I want to accept help from the likes of you two?"

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Isabel asked, matching Aegisfield for subtlety.

The officer harrumphed. "The Bridge is a tight community, miss. I heard about the brawl you two started at Sam's inn last night." Angelo winced. They were doubly unfortunate today it seemed. Aegisfield fixed the auburn-haired girl with a stony glare. "I thought I had made myself clear when you entered the district: I will not tolerate your sort making a ruckus, not with the Skinner still on the loose."

He heard Isabel cluck her tongue in obvious impatience with the Inspector's attitude. "Then let us help you out with catching the bastard."

Aegisfield shook his head, resting folded arms upon the cheap veneer surface of his meticulously tidy desk. "No, I don't think so. The City of Athkatla has posted no bounty for this murderer and your 'services' are unnecessary. The Watch will handle this matter."

"And such a wonderful job you're doing of it, I might add," she remarked sarcastically.

"And I don't care for your tone, Miss Wren. I don't need some uncouth Northerner in my office telling me how to do my job."

She snorted. "Oh please. You guys need help and I'm offering it. Are you really going to look a gift horse in the mouth just because I'm a foreigner?"

"Can I expect the same kind of help your country so generously provided when they tried to start a war with us not three months ago?" he snapped, eyes glinting dangerously. Angelo could almost feel the woman rile next to him and before he could assess the common sense of his actions, he had placed a restraining hand on her arm and stepped forward.

"Angelo, what the hell –" Isabel hissed in an undertone as he pushed in front of her.

"With all due respect, sir," he began, cutting off any imminent retort on her part, "but I think you're looking at this from the wrong angle."

The officer arched a brow. "Oh? How so?"

A few years ago after finishing a long shift on the front gates, well before he had made captain, Angelo had listened to one his fellow guardsmen, Des, comment that there were two kinds of men who joined the Watch: the ones who gave a damn about the city and the ones who were just out for some easy coin. Angelo had disagreed; he thought the difference lay between the ones who were stupid and the ones who were smart. A man could be as righteous and competent as can be, but still never advance in the ranks and likewise, a guard who was happy to take every bribe ever offered oft found himself working amidst the slop of the local slum. On the other hand, the smart ones were always just competent enough. They knew the difference between accepting the odd bribe and being greedy, they knew when to enforce the law and when to turn a blind eye and they knew exactly whose boots they had to lick for a promotion. It wasn't necessarily that they didn't care about the people they were charged to protect – but they always knew to keep an eye out for number one. Every instinct now sang to him that Aegisfield belonged to the latter group – he had not landed the command of a moderately affluent district such as the Bridge by playing the fool.

He spoke quickly. "I can see where you're coming from. Like you said, this is a tight community and you've been here awhile and I _know_ it doesn't look good to the powers that be over in the Council building if you hand over the investigation to a bunch of foreign mercs."

Aegisfield's eyes narrowed perceptibly. "I still don't see the 'wrong angle.'"

Angelo smiled tightly. "Well, the thing is, you still haven't cracked this case. The Skinner's still on the loose and it's becoming pretty obvious to folks around here – and the folks across the river – that this isn't the work of the Shadow Thieves. You've been putting this down to the guild war up till now, which means I'll bet you don't have many leads as to who the murderer is. Frankly Inspector, you're running out of time to solve this case before the brass kicks your sorry ass to some shit-infested corner of the Slums."

"My sorry ass is just as likely to get demoted if I hand this over," Aegisfield replied coldly. "I might as well be saying, "I can't do the job" which might not mean much in the poorer quarters, but in the Bridge, it means a hell of a lot. Just because you might understand my... predicament... doesn't exactly help me out of it."

"Let's be realistic, Inspector. You _can't_ do the job," he held up a hand as Aegisfield opened his mouth. "Not alone. It's not got one whit to do with your competence, Inspector, you just don't have the manpower. I know how it is in districts like these – they sling you with naught but a couple of lame mules and expect you to move mountains with them."

"Aye, they do at that," he muttered. _Now for the carrot,_ and Angelo leaned forward, resting calloused palms against Aegisfield's desk.

"So let us pick up the slack. Hire us and we'll run about town doing your legwork, and when we catch the sick bastard, we'll let you take full credit."

He paused for effect, watching carefully as the guardsman mulled over the offer. He could have sworn he could actually feel Isabel's gaze piercing into the back of his head, but he steadfastly ignored her. _Just focus on Aegisfield_, he told himself grimly.

"You would agree to such a deal?" he asked slowly.

"Certainly. It's not like subcontracting work out to small mercenary bands is an entirely new scenario, Inspector," he said dryly. "The Flaming Fist has been doing it for years."

A slight smile touched Aegisfield's weathered features. "You were with the Fist?"

Angelo nodded. "Yes sir. Four years."

He nodded and Angelo fancied he saw some small measure of respect in the Inspector's hard-eyed gaze. His eyes then drifted to the woman to his left.

"You've been remarkably quiet, Miss Wren. Do you agree with your man's assessment of our situation?"

Angelo turned, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. She looked thoughtful however, rather than angry at his taking over of the situation, but that could easily have been for Aegisfield's benefit. He could only hope that whatever thoughts were turning behind that delicate face looked favourably upon his continued breathing.

"Angelo does make an uncomfortable habit out of being right," she said finally. "We'll investigate the murders on behalf of the Watch, and since letting you take all the glory, we'll do so for no less than one quarter above your standard fare." Her mouth twitched slightly. "I imagine it's a small price to pay for the promotion that'll be coming your way after your unit single-handedly catches the Skinner."

Aegisfield rose from his chair, appraising the pair shrewdly.

"Full credit, understand? When you find the bastard, you damn well make sure I'm there to make the arrest."

Isabel smiled. "We wouldn't have it any other way," she assured him.

"Then I believe we have a deal."

Angelo breathed a sigh of relief as they shook hands. Aegisfield told them that he would send one of the guards shortly to bring them up to speed on the evidence they had collected so far.

After they left his office, Isabel managed to flag down a passing guard. If she noticed the way the burly youth had leered suggestively as she extracted directions to the mess hall, she gave no indication of it, and before he knew it, they were seated at a long wooden table amongst some half dozen off-duty guards.

Angelo sat across from his former quarry and was trying his damn hardest not to look at her. But as if to make a liar of himself, he kept sending fleeting glances her way. Much like, he noted with faint amusement, the way she had snuck peeks at him yesterday, the very ones he had pretended to ignore. She had barely spoken two words to him since they'd left Aegisfield's office and he still didn't know what she thought of what he had done. Keeping one's head down and mouth shut had long been his watchword – but she had told him he would have to prove his worth if he wanted to remain, so what was he to do?

He found his eyes drifting about the room. The setting was so familiar... the bouquet of dirt and sweat and ale, the sight of watchmen clapping each other's backs in heartfelt joviality. All of it reminding him of that sense of kinship he had once enjoyed with similar men in different uniforms. And yet at the same time, it felt like bumping into an old friend that you hadn't seen in a long time and discovering that you both didn't have nearly as much in common as you once did.

He raised his cup and tried not to make a face as the bitter, lukewarm tea flooded his mouth. Over the chipped rim, he could see Isabel staring at him speculatively.

"This isn't going to work," she said finally, setting her own cup down. Angelo choked on his tea. _No, no, no, no, no!_

"Wait, don't be foolish Isabel!" he spluttered hurriedly. "I know you think I was undermining your authority back there, but believe me I wasn't. I _know_ these types of men – I used to be one of them and I know how they think. Trust me, you weren't going to get anyway with the tactics you were trying. I am an asset –" He stopped abruptly as he registered the expression on her face. Was she _laughing_ at him?

Isabel couldn't quite contain her grin at the frenzied panic in his whiskey-coloured eyes. It was almost nice to see there was something real at work behind that carefully maintained veneer of self-assurance he usually wore. "As much fun as it was to watch you spaz out like that, I wasn't referring to our arrangement," she informed him dryly. "Not in the way that you were thinking, at least."

Angelo let his shoulders relax slightly, quickly recovering his composure. _Stupid, Dosan,_ he berated himself inwardly. _Stupid to let her see how desperate you are._

"Okay, what is it you meant then?" he asked, trying to keep his voice as level as possible.

Isabel hooked a finger about an auburn strand that had escaped the rest of her braid, twirling it absently. "You were good back there," she said. To Angelo it seemed like she had to force out the words. "And you were right – I don't speak Guard and you do and I would never have thought to approach it from that angle." She met his eyes evenly. "People are more than the sum of their parts. You have experience, and I would be a fool not to recognize that." Her mouth twisted slightly. "As much as I might like not to admit it."

Angelo hoped his surprise was not quite as obvious as it felt.

"So where exactly does that leave us?" he asked cautiously.

"I guess... I guess it means I want your input. Besides," a half-smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I've never had a lot of patience for the whole Silent Yes-Man thing anyway."

He leaned back in his seat. "Does this mean I'm off probation?"

Isabel laughed. "Hells no. It just means I have marginally more respect for your worthless hide than I did before."

"Good to know," he said with a faint smile. It was strange how the whole situation seemed almost... friendly.

"I didn't expect him to be so antagonistic toward Northerners," she said abruptly. Angelo glanced up at her. What did she expect him to say? Did she really need _him_ to tell her that the Inspector's poor attitude was probably borne out of the narrowly averted war between their two nations – the same war he had helped to bring about in the first place?

"I meant, apart from the war," she added echoing his thoughts. "There seemed a bit more to it than that."

"Historically speaking, I don't think the Amnish have never really got on with folk from the North," Angelo hedged. "But I reckon it has about as much to do with being a mercenary. Guards often don't like people like us; we intrude on their turf, and they tend to view mercs in general as undisciplined and unscrupulous."

"That reasoning seems rather ridiculous when I think about some of the guardsmen I've met."

"Likely because it is. Some of the most unscrupulous men you'll ever meet wear the livery of the city watch," he smiled wryly at her arched brow. "Well, obviously I would know."

Isabel's smile didn't quite fit under her hand, and they sat in an almost companionable silence for some time. He was loathe to break it, but there was one question he needed the answer to.

"You never said how it went with Jaheira yesterday."

It was her turn to be surprised, although the expression was quickly replaced with something approaching amusement. "I was wondering how long it would take you to work up the nerve to ask me," she said with a shake of her head.

"I didn't want to push my luck."

"And you do now?"

Angelo shrugged. "You asked me to speak my mind."

Isabel sighed. "True. It's not an unreasonable question anyhow." She paused, feeling a familiar heaviness settle upon her heart again. "Not well. Not that, you know, I expected her to jump for joy or anything... but still, not well."

"Should I be locking my doors at night?"

She looked at him sharply. "Jaheira might be angry with my decision – as is her right, by the way – but I do not believe she would do what you are suggesting. Not without provocation at least."

Well, at least now he knew. "I'm sorry." The words fell out of his mouth unthinkingly. Even more astonishing was that he felt he might actually have meant them.

Isabel eyed him dubiously. "Uh huh."

"Not so sorry I'd do anything differently," he added, feeling an unexpected need to qualify his unwitting apology.

Isabel's gaze drifted down to her cup, swirling the dregs about absently. "She doesn't trust you."

"Neither would I in her place."

"I don't trust you either."

"I know." He looked away. _It's not the guards the ones who have changed_, he found himself thinking wearily. _It's me who's different._ He could still feel the force of those impenetrable dark eyes boring into his skull.

"Angelo," her voice was soft, like velvet. "Why did you want to join us?"

He met her eyes for the briefest of seconds and, Ilmater help him, he opened his mouth to answer.

"There you are!" exclaimed a loud voice, breaking the moment. Angelo managed to tear his eyes away from Isabel's to see a rather hurried looking youth in a Watch uniform glaring down at them. "Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you two? Inspector Aegisfield wanted me to tell you both – they've found another body."


	7. Wait and Hope

_Author's Note: Many apologies for the long wait for this chapter. Barring all the usual excuses (demands of work, university etc.) this chapter has been just evil to me, and after at least 6 rewrites, I'm still not all that happy with the result. But hopefully, you dear reader, will find something in here to enjoy._

**6 – Wait and Hope**

"_He's late."_

"_Easy now, love. He'll b-be here soon."_

"_No. Something's wrong, I can feel it. The road from Candlekeep does not take this long to travel. Something must have happened."_

_He caught her wrist as she paced passed him again, and gently pulled her toward him. "And what will wearing a hole through the floor d-do to help him?" he asked softly. "We c-can only wait, my love."_

"_I dislike waiting. I am not good at it," she said, the edge of sullenness creeping into her voice. Her husband smiled._

"_That much I do know."_

_She sighed heavily and sat herself down on the stool next to him. "He should have told us more. Dermin should have told us more. By Silvanus, sometimes I fear we Harpers are secretive sometimes only so we don't fall out of practice. How can we be expected to do anything if we are left to fumble about in the darkness?"_

"_We are not fumbling, d-dear. We're waiting."_

_She threw him a dark look. The man sighed and stroked the hand he still held in his. "You have always been a woman of action, Jaheira. You like to feel you are in c-control at all times. B-but sometimes you just h-have to take it on faith that everything will work itself out."_

"_I just feel so useless sitting here." She met his soft hazel eyes unhappily. "I worry for Gorion, Khalid. Everyone has been so mysterious and cryptic about him and his foster-daughter, I do not understand why. Why is Candlekeep no longer safe? For that matter, who is it that he is so afraid of?"_

"_Jaheira, love –"_

"_No, Khalid. His letter entrusted us with her care if something happened to him. He doubts he will even make it as far as this inn. I –"_

_Her husband put a finger over her lips. "Have faith. Trust in yourself that we will meet whatever comes. T-trust in me, Jaheira." He leant forward and touched his forehead to hers. "You are the strongest woman I have ever known. Whatever comes, my faith in you shall never falter. Everything will be fine, you'll see."_

_She couldn't help the smile that crept onto her lips. But that was always his way, was it not? He knew her moods, knew her as no other did – they were two halves of the same whole. The view through his eyes never failed to catch her breath, because when she saw herself as he saw her, she could believe anything was possible._

_A sudden crash, like a thunderclap and the sounds of yelling that followed it broke the moment and both of them snapped their gaze toward the door. Before she could open her mouth to ask what had happened, a guard with the private insignia of the Friendly Arm Inn emblazoned on his breastplate was half-steering, half-hauling two blood-streaked teenage girls into the common room. Khalid gripped her forearm lightly._

"_Listen, we didn't do anything wrong! Stop manhandling her, can't you see she's injured?" one of the girls was objecting loudly. Her back was turned to their table and she could not see the girl's face._

"_You are both aware, are you not, that the Friendly Arm Inn does not permit weapons on its grounds and the exercise of violence is strictly prohibited?"_

"_Yeah, you know now that you mention it, I do remember some idiot at the gates telling me that. Actually, the thought occurred to me a little earlier – when that wizard came at me and we had nothing to defend ourselves with!"_

"_Oi, Camir!" the innkeeper was hurrying toward the altercation. "What's the meaning of this?"_

"_There was an incident outside on the steps. These two killed Tarnesh."_

"_He attacked us first!" the other girl protested._

_The innkeeper raised his eyebrows. "Did he?"_

_The guard looked a tad bashful. "He was unarmed when we let him through the gates."_

_The first girl snorted derisively. "He's a mage. He _is_ a weapon."_

"_Was." Her companion looked ashen as she corrected her. She swept a white hand through a head of shockingly pink hair, gaze roving across the room furtively and then suddenly her green eyes were locked with Jaheira's. She frowned slightly._

"_Is there anyone who can vouch for you both?" the innkeeper asked. The other girl threw up her hands in exasperation._

"_We were supposed to meet people here, but I have no idea who they are or –"_

"_Bels," the pink-haired girl murmured, her hand on her friend's shoulder. She had to give it an insistent shake before the girl took notice. She spun round and met the older woman's stare squarely. Jaheira would never forget that moment. For all the girl's bravado with the guards, she was as white as a sheet and there was a wild desperation in her dark eyes. Need._

"_Jaheira?"_

"Jaheira?" The druid snapped from her reverie, eyes flying open to a very different scene before her. She was seated on a low, slightly shabby couch in Bayle's sitting room, joined by both Yoshimo and Keto. Bayle himself sat opposite and watched her speculatively.

"I – I beg your pardon?" she attempted to recover her composure. The vividness of the memory had been disconcerting. Jaheira had never been one prone to daydreams.

"More tea?" the thief gestured to the teapot and she shook her head. He made no comment about her distracted behaviour, but she knew that it had not gone unnoticed neither by him nor the bard beside him. She cursed herself inwardly for not paying more attention to the conversation and being caught out for it.

"As I was saying," he cleared his throat and returned his attention back to Bayle. "We would be grateful if you passed on any news of new mercenary opportunities to us."

Their contact shrugged. "I see no problem with doing so. After all, it is in all our parties' best interests that you raise the money."

"And these 'parties' are –" Jaheira asked archly.

Bayle's answering smile dripped with condescension. "I refer, of course, to yours and the group I represent. And your Imoen, naturally." He turned back to Yoshimo, and she bit back her irritation at the appearance that the thief was the voice of their company in Isabel's absence. "If I hear of anything, I'll send my nephew." He rose to his feet, their dismissal imminent. "Please inform Isabel of my continued well-wishes of luck and that I look forward to concluding our business in the future."

With that, the three of them departed his house. Despite the clear morning, clouds had quickly covered the Athkatlan skies in a duvet of grey and Jaheira could smell the rain threatening on the brisk autumnal wind.

"We should seek shelter soon," she told the others curtly. "Lest we wish to be drenched in an hour." She crinkled her nose with distaste. In the wilds the scent of rain was soft and fresh, but here it merely carried the reek of the city. It tasted of misery and squalor.

"That's fine by me," Keto announced brightly. "I, for one, have no desire to be caught out in the damp."

"If you are so easily discomforted, perhaps you ought to seek another profession," she remarked coolly, the bard's cheerful tone setting her teeth slightly on edge. The girl frowned at the rebuke.

"Well I am in agreement with you, Keto," Yoshimo added lightly, the look he cast Jaheira's way faintly reproachful. She ignored him. "Let's head back to the inn. There is little for us to do here now that we have paid our instalment anyhow."

They nodded their assent and continued on their way. Jaheira didn't bother to hide her complete and utter disdain for either of her companions as they chatted away in the same easy and animated manner they had all morning. Unless the situation absolutely required it, she was more than satisfied to simply tune them out. The thief was generally content to accommodate her brusque silences, but Keto had a maddening habit of trying to ask her questions and draw her out into conversation. Jaheira glanced at the girl and rolled her eyes. By the Gods, that girl was annoying! She was all bright smiles and wide-eyed wonder and talked at you a mile a bloody minute. Although not generally a woman to indulge absent-minded flights of fantasy, Jaheira had found herself on more than one occasion that day dreaming longingly of gags and power words compelling silence. She had never met a self-proclaimed adventurer so obviously green in her life – even Imoen and Isabel had carried themselves with more experience when they had stumbled over the threshold of the Friendly Arm.

Why did her thoughts keep returning to that night so long ago? Her frown deepened. The damn girl wasn't even here and she still managed to preoccupy every idle thought.

She wanted to scream. Anger and resentment bubbled in her throat every time her thoughts returned to the previous evening. Hiring a child like Keto Riven was like striking gold compared to Isabel's other choice of companion. By the horns of Silvanus, the very idea of a swine such as Angelo Dosan being trusted in their party was so ridiculously stupid it bordered on insanity. No, it _was_ insanity, pure and simple. What in the Hells was she thinking?

Their fight flashed behind her eyes with painful clarity. She had just stood there with those implacable dark eyes of hers – had she been unaware of what her decision meant, or simply uncaring of it? Jaheira closed her eyes. Why couldn't Isabel see it? Why couldn't she understand that in a world where a man so good as Khalid couldn't live, it was an insult against nature for a man like Angelo to stand in their company where he had once stood.

It wasn't fair.

_No, what's unfair is my role in this sorry mess! Me, constantly having to make allowances for your grief._

And there was the rub, wasn't it? Isabel saw Khalid's death as but a vacancy to be filled and Jaheira's mourning a burden to be accommodated.

She sighed heavily. Deep down, she knew in her heart that she was not being just to the girl. _You pushed her into saying the things she did. Isabel would probably never have even thought of Angelo as a replacement for Khalid until you accused her of it._ It didn't lessen the sting any.

Mentally, she willed herself to stop obsessing over the damn girl and their Gods-damned argument.

"So how do you suppose Isabel and Angelo are doing with the Watch?" she heard Keto ask. The fates had not lost their taste for irony it seemed, she thought sourly.

"It is difficult to say," Yoshimo answered, absently scratching the day's worth of stubble on his chin. "They might welcome the offer, or completely resent us for it. But from what I've seen and know of Isabel, she can be persuasive when she wants to be – albeit usually in a blunt, bull-in-a-china-shop kind of way." He smiled a little at the last part as if he found the trait endearing.

"You sound like you've known her a long time."

The thief chuckled. "Hardly any time at all really. I joined with this group only a few weeks ago. But when you face death on a day-to-day basis with someone, well, you tend to get a feel for what kind of person they are fairly quickly. Isabel Wren is the sort of person who usually gets her way." Jaheira barely suppressed a snort.

Keto grinned. "I have no trouble believing that. The way she walks, you'd think some people would follow her anywhere."

"She is undoubtedly a very determined young woman," he agreed.

"What made you join?"

It was perhaps the first time Jaheira had ever paid anything the young bard had said with any genuine interest. Yoshimo's motivations for his continued presence had never really been made clear to her and she found herself observing their exchange carefully. The thief blinked his onyx eyes only once before answering.

"She saved my life. I owe her a debt," he said simply, but his gaze flickered toward Jaheira's for a moment. Perhaps it was merely some trick of the light, but she could have sworn there was the faintest hint of something lurking below the surface of that look. An unspoken emotion she couldn't quite place.

"What of you, Jaheira? How long have you been with Isabel?" Keto asked, turning to face her. Jaheira's gaze snapped to the copper-haired woman's open face.

"I do not see how it is any business of yours," she replied coldly.

"I was just asking. Come on, Yoshimo shared."

"That is his prerogative. I myself do not share his inclination to impart the private details of my life with untried children playing at adventurer. I prefer to leave the past where it is."

Keto was stung, but not out. "How funny. That was not at all the impression I received last night. Tell me, what part of you leaping over tables to kill Angelo was 'leaving the past where it is'?"

She folded her arms across her chest and glared at the older woman's furious silence, apparently fed up with the druid's condescension.

"Believe me, it was a favour to us all. If you wish to satisfy your curiosities about Isabel's and my beginnings or _him_, then direct your questions at them not I. Although there's a rather quaint proverb about cats that springs readily to mind."

Keto opened her mouth to retort, but a quick warning look from Yoshimo stopped her. He gave the tiniest shake of his head, and the bard closed her mouth abruptly, turned on heel and strode ahead leaving the thief and druid in privacy. The look he was giving her was reproving.

"Do not start with me, thief," Jaheira said sharply. "I am in no mood for it."

"Then that is, as they say, tough luck," he replied disapprovingly. "She did not deserve your censure back there, nor has she done anything to warrant the backhanded insults you have been hurling at her feet all morning. It is not Keto's fault you are fighting with Isabel."

Jaheira glared at him. "You have a lot of nerve chastising me, Yoshimo. I've been here far longer than you."

"Which is why, among other reasons, I respect you enough to have the courtesy of having this conversation in private," he snapped. "And Ilmater help me, somebody needs to say it – Jaheira you cannot keep doing this."

"For Gods' sake, Yoshimo! You do not know the half of what is going on. If you only knew what sort of man Angelo was –"

"This is about more than Angelo, and you know it," the thief replied quietly. "I do not know what history had passed between you three, and frankly, I care little. I trust Isabel's judgement; that is enough for me. But I worry for you. You are angry, I understand."

"You cannot possibly understand what it is I suffer, Yoshimo," she replied bleakly and he looked away.

"You have lost someone dear to you and nothing makes sense anymore without them. You feel as though the world around you is moving at one speed, whilst you travel at another. No matter how hard you try, everything is spinning too fast and you cannot keep up; sometimes it feels like it's all you can do to breathe and even that is difficult. You are angry all the time; at the world, at the Fates, at the Gods, at your friends. At your husband for leaving you. How could he leave you to face all the suffering of the world alone? You awake each morning to look in the mirror and you see only a twisted, pale shade of the person that once stood there. And you hate yourself for it, every day despising yourself for what you have become. I understand better than you think."

Jaheira stared at him wordlessly as he gave word and shape to every feeling. Yoshimo met her gaze evenly, a sad and crooked smile on his lips.

"And you are mad at Isabel," he continued softly. "Not so much over her decision, but over the fact that she made one at all. You look at her and part of you recognises in her something you once recognised in yourself. She now leads where you once did and you feel you are no longer needed. You are wrong. She needs your friendship now more than ever, Jaheira, just as much as you need hers."

The rain began to drizzle as they walked together in silence for some time. "Does it ever get better?" she finally croaked. After a moment, he opened his mouth to answer but was cut off as a dart of copper flew at them, tearing up the lane.

"Yoshimo, Jaheira, you must come quickly," the girl panted, her eyes bright with adrenalin. "There's a man up ahead, I think he's in trouble but there were too many for me to –" Her words trailed off as the pair exchanged a quick nod and followed her path. Keto led them to a small alley off the main road and raised a finger to her lips. Jaheira strained to hear their voices over the growing din of the rain.

"Mask help ye, Dibbit, can't ye move any faster?"

"_You_ try carrying the sod!" She heard a heavy thud and an accompanying moan. The first man swore.

"Look what ye've done now! I told ye, we should've waited till dark to move him."

"It's raining and it's the slums – no one's going to care, even if they were out to see us," the man called Dibbit replied. Jaheira sidled along the side of the building and peeked her head around the corner just far enough to take in the scene. Two men were bent over a third man who was sprawled over the muddy cobblestones. Given the ugly angle his leg was bent at she suspected it was broken, although whether it was due to being dropped or was an older injury, she couldn't tell. She leaned back against the wall and raised two fingers.

Keto shook her head violently and raised four. The druid frowned, and then nodded. Her earlier antipathy toward the girl not forgotten, but there was a time and a place and she made the snap decision to trust her eyes. That meant that there were another two unaccounted for. She glanced at Yoshimo. The thief had drawn his katana and smiled, well, roguishly. He slipped silently around the corner of the building. Jaheira pulled Keto toward her.

"I can't cast," the younger girl whispered, panic edging into her voice. "I'm not licensed." Jaheira tapped a finger on the short bow slung over the bard's back.

"But you can use this, no?" Keto swallowed and nodded once. "Good. Now listen to me: I'll draw them out. Don't give away your position until you see their friends. Understand?" She nodded again, more vigorously this time and as if to prove her point, readied her bow.

Jaheira smiled grimly and ducked into full view of the bandits. They spotted her almost immediately.

"Hey! What are ye doing here? Turn around and forget ye ever saw this!" one exclaimed.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" she began, still walking toward the group.

"Ye dumb bitch, I said _turn around!_" The speaker drew his blade threateningly, but Jaheira kept her pace steady.

"Just kill her and have done with it," the voice she had attributed to Dibbit said exasperatedly. They were the last words to leave his mouth as she whipped her staff up and around to hear the audible crack of his skull. The other man didn't pause a second to mourn his companion and immediately bore down on her with a series of flurried passes. She slipped easily into a defensive stance, parrying his blows as she heard another cry across the way. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Yoshimo catch a third man with his back exposed as he rushed to the aid of her opponent. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Her enemy's grin was feral as he bore down on her defence. He was more skilled then the others and the few seconds that she had allowed her attention to be split between him and watching Yoshimo had given him the opportunity to drive her into a more difficult position. He was forcing her back toward the wall, where she would have less manoeuvrability and he the advantage. She took another step backwards, and cursed as she slipped on the rain-slicked cobblestones. His grin grew even wilder as he lifted his sword high.

Keto was not the best of shots, but she was good enough. Her arrow whistled through the air and thudded into the bandit's shoulder. He cried out in pain, twisting about to find his unseen assailant. It was enough of a distraction for Jaheira to hurl her boot knife into his chest.

Yoshimo sheathed his blade and reached down for her arm, hauling her to feet.

"Thanks," she murmured. "What happened to the fourth?" The thief jerked his head to her right. Another man lay in the street with an arrow sprouting from his throat. Jaheira raised her eyebrows gracefully at the bard.

"You needn't look so surprised," the girl muttered under her breath as she went over to the stranger they had just saved. Jaheira let it pass – she deserved it, she supposed – and knelt beside the bard.

"He's unconscious, but try not to move him – I think his leg is broken," she instructed her. Carefully, she turned his face so she could examine him. His skin was pasty and his heartbeat shallow, but at least it was there. His leg was indeed broken in two, maybe three places, but she was more concerned about his temperature. She removed her palm from his head and frowned deeply.

"What is it?" Keto asked.

"He has a fever, as if his body were fighting off an infection or a poison."

"I wonder who he is," the bard said softly. "They didn't seem like your average, run-of-the-mill muggers to me."

"Nor me," Yoshimo remarked, joining them. "I didn't find anything on them to indicate their purpose here however."

Jaheira nodded absently, as she began to summon her energies within. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes and laid her palm flat against his chest. Healing was a subtle process and before she could craft the necessary spell, she needed to understand the exact nature of his injuries. She opened her mind and could immediately sense the wrongness emanating from within his body, confirming her suspicions. It was in his bloodstream. Poison.

Her fingers brushed against something sharp and she opened her eyes. Frowning, she lifted the lapel of his shirt and her heart skipped a beat. A golden pin.

"He needs attention, immediately. I need to get him some place safe and warm and dry."

"There's an inn not so far," Yoshimo began. "I think it's called the Dog and Duck –"

"No!" she exclaimed, and bit her lip. Where could she take him? Wait, the Coronet was not so far from here, she remembered. Bernard would know who to contact in the city. "The Copper Coronet would be better," she said assuredly.

"Alright," the thief replied. "If you're sure –"

"I am. Help me lift him."

Between the three of them, they carried the stranger through the rain to the dilapidated inn that sat nestled in the epicentre of the Athkatlan slums. Jaheira paused at the weathered door, letting the familiarity of the place wash over her. Despite the fact that the building was decades old and that its ownership changed hands almost as often as it took a man to get a knife behind your back, the inn always seemed to remain untouched by the long roll of years. It was, quite simply, just as shabby and decrepit as it was the day it was built. She turned back to the others.

"I can take it from here. Go back to the Five Flagons and let Isabel know I might be some time. I want to do what I can for this man before I return."

"We should stay with you –" Keto started, but Jaheira shook her head.

"No. Neither of you are healers and there would be little for you to do. Isabel needs to know what has passed in any case, and she can't know if the three of us are all here. Besides, you oughtn't to travel the streets alone. This is best." Her voice was firm.

Yoshimo sighed. "Fine, we will return to the Bridge. But do be careful, won't you?"

She snorted. "I can take care of myself, Yoshimo. It's not as though she has any real need for my presence there anyway." The words came out more bitter than she had intended however.

He hesitated a moment, a shadowed look in his eyes. "Jaheira, I implore you as a friend, please, remember what I told you before. Do not let this hollowness in your heart eat you alive."

"And pray tell Yoshimo, what would you do in my place?" Her laugh was soft, but utterly devoid of mirth. "Wait for enough time to pass that it no longer hurts? That is not my way."

_That much I do know._

"Find the man who killed him," he said simply. "It seems a good enough place to start to me."

xxx

Isabel wanted to gag. Over the past year she had seen more than her share of gruesome sights, but somehow the combination of rotting fish and a bloated corpse that was little more than bones and sinew was worse than anything else she could remember. She turned her nose into the collar of her coat and breathed through her mouth, wishing fervently that she had skipped breakfast.

The body was in an ugly state. The Skinner, true to his grisly namesake, had left little left to identify the man by. He had peeled most of the flesh from the man's back and torso. A shudder reverberated through her frame. She sincerely hoped for this man's sake that he hadn't been alive when this was done to him.

"Where did you find him?" she asked.

"One of the local fishermen found him," the young guardsman who had fetched them to the scene said. His face was very pale and he seemed to be doing his best not to actually _look_ at the corpse. "Said he found him in one of his nets."

Isabel immediately swore off fish for the rest of her life.

"Look at this," she motioned for Angelo to see as she knelt beside the body and pointed at his swollen fingers. "Look at his hand. He's still wearing his wedding ring." She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, not really wanting to conjure the image of a wife, waiting at home for a husband that would never return.

Angelo's face was grim. "Definitely not the work of a petty cutpurse."

"Aegisfield is an idiot," she said in an angry undertone. "How could he possibly have thought thieves were responsible for something like this?"

Angelo sighed, rocking back on his heels. "He doesn't have the best instincts, I'll warrant you that, but it's not entirely his fault. It's difficult to think outside the box when you've spent your whole life living inside one."

"And you?" she asked with an arched brow.

"Me? I was born outside the box," he replied, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips. It faded when he turned his gaze back to the body however. "See how he's taken skin from some parts of the body and not others? And the precision of the cuts – this was done by an experienced hand. I'd be willing to put money on it that this bastard's into some kind of necromancy."

Isabel glanced up at the guard. The poor boy was clutching so tightly at the holy symbol of Lathander around his neck she was afraid he would choke on it.

"Necromancy... you'd think the Cowled Wizards might have noticed if something like that was being practiced in the city?" she muttered.

"Not necessarily," Angelo disagreed. "Licenses are fairly easy to come by if you've got the coin or the connections and once you've got one they tend to turn a blind eye."

That made her clench her fists angrily. "Great. This guy goes round town skinning his victims and their response is, "Oh, no worries folks, he's got a license!" But when it's just some poor girl trying to defend herself, she's the one that gets branded a public menace."

He didn't reply, just kept his gaze rooted on the body between them. After all, what was there to be said? Laws were not always just and life was not always fair – neither of which was particularly earth-shattering news to either of them. Finally he glanced up at the guard who accompanied them.

"Do we know who he is?" he asked him.

"I think – I think I'm going to be – " the boy began to shake his head from side to side, then seemed to regret the rapid movement as he turned an even greener shade of pale.

Angelo rose quickly to his feet and steered the young guard so that his own body was planted between him and the corpse, blocking the lad's view. "Easy son," he said quietly, gripping his shoulder firmly. "Look at me now, not him. No, me. Better. Now tell me, do you know who it was who saw him last?"

Isabel watched him thoughtfully. He spoke gently, but with a commanding sort of self-assurance that the boy appeared to respond to. He sounded like a captain, the kind of man you would follow into battle. Capable. Trustworthy. She lifted a hand to her temple. Gods, how she hated that he had impressed her! It was so much easier when she could just think of him as a bastard, nothing but some muscle she needed for the moment to achieve her goals. The idea of having some measure of respect, admiration even for such a man made her head spin.

_Jaheira was right_, she thought as she rubbed her eyes tiredly. _I've completely lost my mind._

Maybe it wasn't so much that he had displayed certain qualities, she conceded. After all, Sarevok had been no fool and it stood not only to reason, but her own experience, that those he had chosen to surround himself within his innermost circle hadn't been either. No, it was the puzzle Angelo Dosan presented. For the life of her, Isabel could not figure out his game. He had been bold to the point of reckless when he had approached her amidst the graves, and then almost the very moment she had agreed to his proposal, he had retreated into himself – playing the silent shadow, his secrets locked behind watchful eyes. And then just as suddenly, he was jumping in, superseding her authority and taking charge of a negotiation, then only to once again withdraw into a wary silence, speaking only when spoken to. He divulged practically nothing of himself, of his past or of his reasons for seeking her out in Athkatla.

The man was entirely impossible, she decided.

But right now, as she turned back to study the body, there were other, more pressing issues at hand. Gods though, it was an awful sight. She had never found killing itself to be particularly difficult – a simple fact that until recently had not fazed her overly much. Although she had reflected uncomfortably in the wake of recent revelations at the ease with which killing came to her, she knew she had only ever acted in the defence of herself or others and could never really picture herself having acted differently. That she had left many a corpse of her own by the wayside did not keep her awake at night. But this – brutality for brutality's sake – disgusted her. She studied the man's wounds, seeing what Angelo had meant when he had spoken of precision. There was a dark, twisted purpose behind this man's ugly demise. To her, he looked like a broken doll, somebody's plaything carelessly tossed into a river when done with. No longer needed.

For a brief second, Irenicus' cold visage was all she could think of and she swallowed a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the corpse sprawled at her feet.

"Okay, here's what we know," Angelo motioned her over and she rose to meet him, as the young guard disappeared around a corner, presumably to relieve himself of his lunch. "His name was Bliver and he was a local, like the other victims. Lived his whole life in the Bridge, he used to make a decent living but after his wife passed, things went south."

"He was living on the streets?"

"Just the same as most of the other Skinner victims," Angelo nodded grimly. "They've all been beggars and paupers so far. One was a working woman, but she was a streetwalker and she wasn't associated with any of the local brothels. All these people, they're all –"

"– people no one would really miss," Isabel finished with a muttered curse. "Damn it, he's smart. Who's going to care about a few dead vagrants? And with the guild war to cover his tracks... Gods, Angelo! He could have been doing this for who knows how long and no one, _no one_ noticed!" She threw him a hard look. "Tell me this doesn't offend you."

Angelo made himself look first at Bliver's bruised and bloated body, the long, parallel cuts that travelled his torso, the tarnished band of silver winking at him from his left hand. He then met Isabel's gaze evenly. "For my many sins, Isabel, I've never particularly enjoyed killing innocent people, much less torturing them. I find this wholly repulsive." His eyes were shrewd. "Are you satisfied?" he asked her more quietly.

She nodded slowly as she searched his face, believing him. A murderer he might be, a senseless sadist he was not. And that was, she supposed, another point in his favour. But still, she couldn't shake an odd twinge that felt a little like disappointment... perhaps because sometimes, senseless sadists and psychopaths were a lot easier to figure out than human beings.

It was beginning to get misty and she drew her fawn coat about her against the encroaching damp. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to be far, far away from this place and cleared her throat. "Let's ask around, see who was with him before he died. They might have seen something that can help us nail this sick bastard."

Xxx

"I _told_ you it was a waste of time." Isabel tone was acerbic as they scurried toward the warm, inviting yellow lights of the inn across the rain-soaked square.

"I heard you," came the clipped reply from the man beside her, the prickly edge of exasperation evident his voice making her glower at him.

"In fact, I believe the exact word I used was _colossal_."

"I remember."

"I may have even thrown in _complete_ and _utter_, I'm not sure I quite recall."

"You'd be singing a different tune now if that fellow she'd seen actually _had_ turned out to be our boy," he retorted.

"Instead of, what was it that she saw?" Isabel made an elaborate show of trying to remember. "A tall, dark figure near the district gates and – sorry, what was he armed with again?"

"A halberd."

"A halberd! Correct me if I am mistaken, Angelo, but that description sounds an awful lot like a city guard."

"Are you quite finished yet, Isabel?" She completely ignored him.

"Don't misunderstand me; I completely understand why you insisted we take the better part of an hour to deconstruct such thought-provoking testimony," she continued tartly. "I mean, quite seriously Angelo, I just thank Tymora that her breasts weren't any bigger. If she'd been any more well-endowed, you mightn't have been able to retrieve your jaw from the carpet before the Skinner claimed another victim!"

Angelo muttered something indistinct and he pushed open the Five Flagons' door with a good deal more force than necessary. Before he could cross the threshold however, the girl stalked past him, forcing him to hold open the door for her. Angelo was seized with the sore temptation to throw his boot at her. Or gag her with it. Sullenly, he followed her beeline path to the bar.

It had been a hideously long afternoon. The awful, clinical violence of Bliver's murder seemed to stick to the skin and despite hours of questioning the neighbourhood, they were not one inch closer to understanding how or why such a man had fallen foul of a twisted serial killer. Angelo almost felt dizzy from all the circles it seemed they were running in and with each dead-ended conversation they had had today, Isabel's temper blackened further. Now night had fallen over the city and they were both drenched, exhausted, dishevelled and had absolutely nothing to show for it barring perhaps, the acquisition of a new, intimate familiarity with Isabel's bad mood. He sighed wearily, his own mood no better off for the near ceaseless barrage of sarcasm and needling he had endured.

The girl in question sank onto the nearest bar stool, not bothering to shed her sodden coat. The rain had darkened her normally russet locks to a deep almost burgundy colour and long strands lay plastered against her wet cheeks. She looked just about as awful as he felt.

"Gods, I'm soaked through to the bone," Angelo groaned, shaking droplets of water from the five day growth on his chin.

"Well maybe if you hadn't been so preoccupied with chatting up street walkers, we might have beaten the rain," Isabel smiled sweetly. He glared darkly at her.

"And forgo yet _another_ opportunity to be scolded?" he rejoined, heavy with sarcasm. "Perish the thought." He scowled at Sam who was watching the pair of them bicker with raised eyebrows. "Whiskey, straight, three fingers," he ordered shortly.

She purposefully waited until the glass was poised at his lips before asking archly, "I suppose you're not going to ask me if _I _want anything to drink?" Basilisks had nothing on Angelo and the black look he graced her with. Wordlessly, he set the glass down before her. It made a very pronounced _thud_ as it connected with the wood and Isabel imagined he was picturing something _other_ than the bar in that moment.

"Thank you," she replied. How she made the words sound like an insult, he would never guess.

"You are welcome," he growled through thin lips.

"I apologise Angelo. Was there something you wanted to say to me?"

"No. I have nothing to say to you, Isabel. You, on the other hand, have already said _plenty_. In fact, I am astonished you managed to find the time to breathe between your constant sniping. By the Gods woman, do you _ever_ put that thing on a leash?" he snapped, his patience reached its end.

"My, my. Look at who found _his _tongue." There was a long pause. "Not easy working for me is it?" she asked finally.

Angelo raised his chin sharply and saw her regarding him carefully, a funny look in her eyes as if she was just seeing something for the first time. Oddly, he found himself wondering idly just how much of today's frustration had been about the lack of progress in their investigation and how much was borne from troubles closer to home.

"Put it this way, chief. I've a brand new respect for your punching bag outside," he replied at length. Her lips quirked in a rueful smile. It was all the apology he would get, but Angelo felt he was finally beginning to get a better read on his new boss.

"It's been a... difficult day."

"And I suspect you've had more than your fill of those of late."

Isabel chuckled mirthlessly at that observation. "As have you, I would imagine."

Leaning back slightly, he tried a smile of his own. "Well, I recall there was this particularly annoying bird back in the Gate who pretty much ran me through with her sword. That was a fairly bad day."

"How awful for you," she rolled her eyes, but felt a knot of tension between them loosen its grip.

"Although, I hope you don't mind me saying, but you're technique is a little bit sloppy," he added slyly, the wolfish grin not quite fitting beneath his hand at her outraged expression.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm just saying, your swordsmanship skills could use some polish is all," he said innocently. "I mean, it must feel a little embarrassing, knowing the reason you have to suffer my presence here is because you're fencing technique lacked a bit of panache."

"You know, we can go outside and determine if my technique lacks panache, _anytime_ you please," Isabel declared boldly. "Moreover, I'm pretty sure the only reason I'm 'suffering your presence' – a characterisation of our situation I find myself agreeing with, by the way – is due to an overdeveloped sense of mercy. Or insanity."

"Touched a sore point?"

"I'll give you a sore point, if you're not careful," she muttered under her breath, but the smile took away the bite from her threat. Angelo chuckled to himself softly. There was something a little bit... fun about it all, and it struck him momentarily how lonely he had been without ever really realising it. He was still smiling into his glass when Keto found them.

"Keto, please tell Angelo that he's a good-for-nothing swine," Isabel ordered.

"Angelo, you are a good-for-nothing swine."

"A rose by any other name," he winked at her, struggling not to laugh at the audible snort from the girl beside him.

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, Isabel smiled up at the bard. "What can I do for you Keto? Where are the others?"

"Yoshimo's upstairs," she replied. "We dropped off the money to Bayle, that all went fine, but –"

At the wariness in her tone, Angelo jerked his head up just in time to see Isabel's easy smile drop. "What happened, Keto? Where's Jaheira? Is she alright?"

The bard shook her head. "She's fine, but she's not here."

"What do you mean she's not here? Where the hell is she?" Isabel demanded.

"We stumbled across a group of, bandits I guess, on our way back and there was a man, he was badly injured and Jaheira wanted to stay with him..." her voice tapered off under the other girl's black stare. "She's at the Coronet," she finished lamely.

"When will she be back?"

There was a long silence. "She did not say."

Any levity remaining fled the building in that moment and Isabel felt herself physically slump in her seat, an all too familiar loneliness settling over her heart. So, Jaheira was gone now too. Was everyone determined to abandon her?

"Thank you Keto." Her smile was tight over her face and the girl ducked her head and disappeared back up the stairs. Isabel refused to meet Angelo's gaze as she turned back to face the bar, afraid that if she did she would see pity in those strange, whisky-coloured eyes of his.

"Another drink?" he asked her quietly. Isabel nodded and despite all her normal misgivings, was grateful that he stayed and said nothing more beyond that.

xxx

Jaheira looked out through the window at the torrential downpour that bucketed down over Athkatla. It was falling in sheets now, and she could barely make out the few unfortunate souls who walked the rain-soaked streets below. Bernard had arranged for a private room on the second floor of the Coronet where she could oversee her patient in relative peace and quiet, the odd bout of raucous laughter from the tavern beneath or the occasional moan from the brothel above somewhat inescapable. It was cramped, but served well enough.

She tore her gaze from the view to check the stranger spread out upon the bed. Bernard had not known his name, but a Harper pin was impossible to mistake. The broken leg had been reset and his breathing was easier after she had laid her healing upon him, but, she noted with a frown, his fever refused to break. Jaheira was disturbed by a poison that her powers could not purge, but there was little left for her to do for the man but wait for her brethren to arrive and hope.

Wait and hope. How could two little words, only one syllable apiece, demand so much of a person? Sighing, she pushed back her tawny locks behind her ears and let the pitter-pat sound of the rain wash over her. Her eyes fluttered closed.

Yoshimo's words spoken in the laneway echoed in her head, refusing to be drowned out by the storm. The memory shamed her; not once had she even paused to consider that the easy-tempered thief might be carrying about his own wounds. But then, a nasty voice added, how often had she considered anyone but herself of late? Still, she wondered had he been right? Was her anger over this business with Angelo rooted in the much deeper resentment that Isabel had assumed the mantle of responsibility she had forsaken in her grief? All the things she had once been – leader, Harper, teacher, confidante, friend, wife – underneath all that fury was she simply afraid that by losing Khalid, she had somehow lost herself too? It often felt that way. The thief's words had rung true when he spoke of the woman in the glass. Jaheira scarcely recognised herself anymore.

And if she was lost as she feared, how was she ever to find her way back again?

Three soft knocks on the door drew the druid from her melancholy and she rose, straightening her collar self-consciously before crossing the room. Nervous butterflies flitted in her stomach at the thought of meeting her brothers and sisters of the Harp. So much had happened in times since and she couldn't rid herself of the fear that they too, would see that pathetic woman who had driven away her friends and gotten her husband killed.

Drawing in a deep breath she steadied her nerves and put her hand on the latch. The time for waiting had passed, she told herself firmly. All that was left was to hope.


	8. Nor Hell A Fury

_Author's note: And you all thought this fic was dead :P _

**7 – Nor Hell a Fury**

It was a bright morning and Keto trilled a soft tune as she strolled through the Bridge's sunny main market square. She smiled at the busy merchants bustling away as they laid out the day's wares on trestle tables and swept the evening dust from the thresholds of their shops, and at the light breeze that carried with it that odd palate of river water, fish and freshly baked bread that so characterised the Bridge District of a morning. Across the river, she could hear the joyous chime of the bells from the temple of Lathander, calling its faithful to morning prayers. Although she found it to be a little strange in a city of so many faiths, Keto had learnt that you could measure the rhythm of activity in Athkatla by the bells of the major temples. The mournful bells from the austere cathedral dedicated to Helm always rang at dawn, signalling the beginning of the day. The Lathanderites and Llirrans did not summon their followers until after the sun had fully risen above the horizon, and the church bells of the Waukeenar chimed with the opening and closing of the Promenade. For most peddlers and shopkeepers, you awoke with the first bells and were ready for business by the second.

Her smile became a little rueful as she leaned against a low stone wall, realising that she must have been in Athkatla for quite some time if she could tell the pulse of the city by when it called its denizens to prayer. In truth, she realised that she had actually been more or less living in the Bridge for almost two months. It was a long time for her to have stayed in one place and part of her wondered if she would still have been living out of her tiny apartment in Sam's inn had it not been for her fateful meeting with Isabel's company. Or would her itching feet have carried her off some place new and far away once again?

She thought she would feel different, now that she part of a mercenary group. A tenday ago, she had been a solitary bard, scraping just enough of a living with her songs and her stories to keep a roof over her head and wine in her glass. It was a lonely life at times, but not a terrible one. Hells, she'd seen enough of the world to know one could do a good deal worse. Still, when she had met Isabel that evening in the tavern, she had felt something. A phantom tug on her heart, drawing her toward Isabel. Keto didn't know if she believed in fate or destiny, but she had _known_ in that moment that they were meant to meet. It was a certainty that she could feel right down to her bones and when she had found herself signing on with their rat tag company, she had been sure that her life was never going to be the same again.

Only the thing was, nothing felt changed. Yes, her bills were now paid from group funds and yes, she now worked alongside other adventurers, but Keto still felt as alone as ever. Was it the fact that her companions were so much more experienced than she that made her feel like such a fraud? Even Isabel, who couldn't have been more than twenty two, maybe twenty three summers, carried herself like a seasoned veteran. Jaheira obviously thought as much of her – what was it she had said? 'Playing at adventurer' that was it. Keto sighed. _And perhaps there is some truth to that, too._

Or perhaps it was simply the history they all shared with one another. Yoshimo was less a part of that, but Isabel, Jaheira and Angelo seemed mired in the past – whatever that past might be. Keto did not belong to that story, dying as she was to know it, and maybe that was why she felt like such an outsider. It was like opening a book in the middle.

But whenever her thoughts turned to the possibility of striking out on her own, she remembered that rush of certainty. She just needed to hold onto it a little longer.

One of the merchants waved her over, pulling her from her thoughts. Bel Dalemark was a portly, affable man of middling years. He had once run his business out of the Promenade, but in the last few years had shifted away from the large, overcrowded bazaar to the smaller market in the Bridge. He peddled a little bit of everything, but Keto knew that the most valuable goods he had, he often gave away for free. The man was an unabashed treasure trove of local gossip. The pair got along like a house on fire.

"Hello Bel, you great old sod, how are you?" she greeted him cheerfully.

"Just dandy, love. I haven't seen your face about here in an age! Been hiding away in Sam Thunderburp's cellars, aye?"

"Such a question to ask a lady!" she pretended outrage. "Is this how you greet all your best customers?"

"Ha! When was the last time you bought anything here?"

"It certainly won't be today with that attitude!" she rejoined and Bel grinned and raised his hands in truce.

"Aye, aye. I'll behave myself," he chortled. Keto returned his smile and idly looked over a collection of Calishmite beads he had displayed.

"How has business been lately, anyhow?" she inquired. The old merchant shrugged indifferently.

"Same as ever. Less traffic stemming in now from the other districts with all these rumours running rife of the Skinner, but most of my customers are local anyhow." He broke into a wide grin when he saw her eyes linger on a long dagger. "What do you suppose you'll be needin' that for love? Fending off unwanted suitors?"

Keto snorted at that observation, but still felt a little embarrassed as she eyed the blade, almost like she had been caught out in a deception. It was well-made, sharp with a comfortable leather grip that fit surprisingly well in her hand. "Is that a protection rune carved into the blade?" she asked, peering closer at it.

"Aye, a minor one – just an enchantment to ensure that it keeps its edge, isn't as susceptible to rust and wear and tear. They were popular during the iron crisis, but that one is my last." His eyes narrowed. "You didn't answer my question love."

She tried to look nonchalant, but she had a sneaking suspicion it didn't quite come off. "Well, I joined a mercenary group this past tenday."

Bel looked as if she had just told him she had plans to join a troupe of dancing bears. "_You_ lass? A mercenary?"

Keto bristled a little. "What of it?"

"It's just a difficult image to conjure. I mean, you're not exactly the type."

"Wow, please, don't spare my feelings by any means."

"Now love, I always knew you were a bit of traveller. You've got the wanderlust in you, and you can spin a tale like no other bard I've met, but darlin'..." Bel touched her arm lightly, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Forgive me Keto, but every story I've ever heard from your lips that _you_ were actually a part of has ended with you running away from something."

"Well maybe I'm sick of running, Bel," she snapped at him before looking away. Damn it, even her friends thought she was a joke. She heard him sigh deeply.

"And now I've gone and hurt your feelings. Confound it, I'm sorry love, I meant nothing by it, truly." Keto jerked her head up, but there was nothing but sincerity and concern in Bel's face, and her own expression softened.

"It's alright. I know I'm not the most stalwart adventurer to ever walk the earth."

"Ah, you'll find your feet soon enough," he replied reassuringly. "Now tell me lass, which company has been graced with yon lovely presence?"

"Flatterer," Keto chuckled. "They are a new company actually, well new to Athkatla anyhow. A northerner by the name of Isabel Wren."

Bel frowned. "Not the same Wren girl Aegisfield has running all over the Bridge investigatin' the Skinner murders?

"The very same," Keto replied, a hint of pride creeping into her voice. Not that they had solved the murders by any stretch of the imagination, but it felt good to be working toward something other than her next meal for a change. Bel surprised her however, when he threw his head back and let out a roar of laughter. "What is it?" she asked, blue eyes narrowed on the chortling merchant.

"Blimey Keto, you sure know how to pick them!" he laughed gleefully. "That is, I assume it's true about her?"

"_What_'s true?"

"That she's Isabel of Candlekeep o'course!" Keto felt the blood drain from her face.

"Isabel of Candlekeep... as in the one who –"

"– who slew Anchev not three months past. The hero of Baldur's Gate." His smile faded as he registered the shock on her face. "Unless she's not... I mean, it was only a rumour after all..."

Keto struggled to clear her throat. "I, ah, honestly couldn't tell you Bel."

"Hmm. Oh well, either way, I'm sure they're a good, honest bunch of people to be travelling with. They'll be doing this community a world of good if they rid us of the Skinner, that's for damn sure. Here," he sheathed the blade she had admired and pressed the hilt into her hand. "Take it love."

"Oh, I couldn't – not without payment –"

The merchant shook his head firmly. "Nay, I won't hear a word against it, and I want you to forget what I said before. You've a good heart, girl, and you should follow it, wherever it leads you."

Keto accepted the blade and looked up at the old peddler, groping for the words to thank him for such unexpected kindness. Finally she threw her arms about him in an impulsive hug. She heard his warm chuckle against her ear as patted her back affectionately.

"I don't know what to say," she whispered.

"Say nothing, love. Just promise me you'll make sure this Isabel Wren knows Bel Dalemark's prices are the best in the city, aye?

They bid their farewells shortly after, and Keto idled back in the direction of the inn, her mind mulling over the morning's revelations. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that Bel had gotten it right about Isabel's identity. It made sense – the accounts spoke of an auburn-haired young swordswoman, and at least one of her companions had been a half-elven woman. And hadn't Isabel mentioned one of her fallen friends had hailed from Rasheman? She wasn't sure where precisely Angelo fit into the picture, obviously their paths had crossed before but she could not remember hearing his name before their meeting. But she was now almost positive there was no mistaking the others, as she mentally pieced together stray comments and conversations over the past days.

What a fool she had been! She had even _been_ in the Gate not even two tenday after the mysterious Isabel of Candlekeep had killed Sarevok Anchev. How could she have been so blind?

And why had Isabel not mentioned it herself? Keto's brows were knitted together as she cut through a narrow laneway. _They're all so damn secretive_, she thought with more than a little resentment. It wasn't that she didn't like them – or most of them at least – but they were just the same as each other. Isabel, Jaheira, Angelo, even Yoshimo on occasion – all of them kept their own counsel. She supposed she couldn't exactly begrudge them for not confiding in a relative stranger, but it still smarted to have been left so completely out of the loop.

_No wonder they all look at me like I'm a child at this,_ she thought glumly. _I might as well be one to them. They're not just veteran mercenaries; they're gods-damned heroes!_

She sighed. Well, they couldn't believe her to be completely useless – after all, _something_ must have compelled Isabel to offer her a job in the first place. _Desperation probably,_ a nastier voice answered.

Lost to her thoughts, Keto didn't even notice anything out of the ordinary until the toe of her boot caught on something lying in the middle of the alley. She made an audible yelp as she fell, landing flat on her face in a heap of blue skirts on the dirty cobblestones. Then she screamed.

Keto had quite literally tripped over the Skinner's latest victim.

xxx

The truly troublesome thing about trying to catch a murderer, Isabel decided, was that more often than not, the murderer in question had a maddening habit of not wanting to get caught. It was not enough to be faster or stronger than your quarry – it was not even enough to be smarter than him. Ultimately there came a point at which all that was left to do was to wait for him to slip, make that one little mistake, give you that one little inch of rope that you could then pull into a noose about his neck.

But you couldn't hang a ghost and a ghost was what she hunted. She sighed, rolling her shoulders in a vain attempt to relieve the tension built up there. The common room was deserted at so early an hour, although she did catch the occasional glimpse of a scullery maid ducking in and out of the kitchens. But for the most part, the inn was still asleep. Lucky them. Isabel had seated herself at the bar in that forest of upturned stools, leaves of parchments containing Inspector Aegisfield's details of his investigation spread haphazardly out before her. She leafed absently through the Inspector's small, neat script though there was no real need to actually read the words. Isabel suspected by now she could recite his notes by heart. He was a meticulous man. Whatever he might have lacked in instinct, she had to give him credit where it was due – every scene, each interview was carefully and scrupulously documented in minute detail. Too bad it was all for naught - it had been a tenday and she was still no closer to knowing the identity of the Skinner, let alone arresting him, than she had when she had asked – no, begged – Aegisfield for the task.

As per usual, inspiration proved to be an elusive creature. Isabel's frown deepened, the same lines she had read over and over again dancing before tired eyes. Mocking her. Aegisfield was a frustrating man, she had discovered. Whilst he had noted the particular and unusual brutality of the murders, he tended to dismiss anything that didn't fit with his theory that the victims were just another unfortunate byproduct of the city's recent guild war. _Narrow minded fool_, she thought with annoyance. Of course, were it not for his want of insight there would likely not be a case for her to solve – but it was so much more preferable to blame Aegisfield than herself for their lack of progress.

Burying her face in her arms, Isabel suppressed the scream rising in her throat. Why did everything have to be so damned difficult? From the near-massacre at de'Arnise to the Skinner, from Sarevok to Irenicus, from losing Imoen to Angelo to Jaheira – where did it end? Why did it feel she was always in a constant, up-hill slog – and if the incline of that path wasn't demoralizing enough, there was always some unknown laughing Fate above ready to throw a few boulders her way, just to keep things interesting.

Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the cathedral bells, marking another new day. Almost involuntarily, Isabel cocked her head to one side to listen better. It was a strange, surreal sort of feeling – an echo across time – but the chiming so reminded her of her childhood she wondered if she closed her eyes whether she would find herself back in Candlekeep again._ See Bels? Hear that? It's the temple of Oghma, calling us to the morning service. Up, up now! You know how Ulraunt fusses when you're late._ A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. How she had _hated_ attending the morning service! It was dull and dour and far too early in the morning and of course, the sages had all been mad for it. Even Gorion, usually the one personage in the keep you could count on to go against the grain was in rare agreement with the Keeper on this particular score. Attendance was mandatory, no ifs, buts or maybes. She shuddered to think how many extra hours of punishment duties in the archives she might have suffered were it not for Imoen, each morning, ready to rouse her from sleep either with a friendly nudge or a bucket of ice water.

The chiming ceased and Isabel opened her eyes, smile fled with the memory.

How simpler things had been back then.

A friendly tap on her shoulder drew her from the melancholy that threatened. The smile that blossomed on her lips this time was not one borne of indulging in the bittersweet nostalgia of a memory, but one of warm gratitude as Yoshimo set down a steaming cup of tea in front of her. Deftly, he flipped down one of the stools off of the bar and took his seat beside her.

"I thought you might like the pick-me-up," he explained with a smile of his own. "How long have you been down here?"

Isabel rubbed her eyes before lifting the cup to her lips. The tea smelt so good. "Who knows? A couple of hours maybe?" She took a sip. It was a good blend, a strong Kara-turan flavour sweetened with honey.

Yoshimo tutted, as a parent might to a wilful child. "You have been up since nearly dawn? Isabel."

"No, before dawn. I went for a run before I settled down with this mess. Needed to clear my head." Before the thief could open his mouth she held up a hand. "Do not ask me why I could not sleep, Yoshimo," she said quietly. His mouth thinned slightly and he nodded in understanding. Neither had any trouble guessing as to what nightmares might keep Isabel awake in the small hours of the morning.

"And how does this morning's ministrations fare?" he asked, glancing down at the scattered papers. "Any luck with our fellow?"

"If only. No, our boy is as elusive as ever." She tossed aside the parchment in her hand with disgust. "There's nothing here, Yoshimo. I cannot think of any more leads to follow, no threads to tug. He leaves no witnesses to his crimes. Leaves nothing of himself behind save his handiwork. This case – it's nothing but false leads and dead ends." _And dead victims,_ she thought but did not say aloud.

Yoshimo's features grew grim as his long brown fingers traced the edges of the parchment. "I fear I cannot offer you any consolation on that score."

"Aren't you supposed to be some sort of bounty hunter?" she smiled wanly at him over her cup. "How would _you_ approach a mark like this?"

"Ah Isabel, it is not so simple as that. For one thing, I have never accepted a contract in which I was not given at least the name of my quarry. Knowing your enemy often makes all the difference."

"And for another?"

"And for another," he said slowly, "you must understand, hunting is a game. There are turns – you make yours, you follow your leads, you collate information, you prepare, and then you wait. You wait for him to make his move. You wait for him to slip." He took a quick sip from his own cup, eyes still downturned. "Don't worry overmuch, Isabel. Our fellow is accomplished at avoiding the authorities; that much is clear, but at some point, he will slip. They all slip in the end."

Isabel sighed heavily. "So basically, you are telling me that I am just supposed to wait around until he mutilates another innocent person and then cross my fingers that the next death is more illuminating than the last?"When Yoshimo didn't answer she cursed under her breath. "Gods above, this life is a real bitch sometimes." She turned toward him. "Do you remember when it used to be simple?"

He smiled at her crookedly. "Not really, no."

She returned his smile with a rueful one of her own before nodding over his shoulder as Angelo descended the stairs and spotted them. _Here_, she thought as he made his way toward them wrapped as usual in an air of casual nonchalance, _is living proof of the fact._ There was quite simply nothing that was not complicated about Angelo Dosan.

"Good morning," he greeted them politely, ducking his head briefly at Isabel. Whether the action signalled some sort of imparting of respect or merely acknowledgment, she wasn't sure. He glanced down at the bar and then back up at her with a frown.

"Really?" he sighed. "Again?" She threw him a dark look. One which rolled off him like water off a duck's back. "I'll assume from that then, that today has thus far been about as productive as yesterday was."

"I'm missing something, I'm sure of it."

"Well," he shrugged philosophically, "you're not likely to find it in those papers. How many times have you been over them this week? The answer won't lie with Aegisfield's investigation; it will lie within our own."

"And ours has come to dead end, hasn't it? Forgive me, but I don't fancy sitting on my hands waiting for this bastard to kill again."

"Oh. Well then. My apologies. I didn't realise this was an exercise in making yourself feel better."

Isabel resisted the temptation to throw something at his head. _Sometimes that smug bastard is a little too perceptive,_ she thought irritably. And she had a feeling he knew it too.

"Do you have anything of value to add, Angelo? Or have you dispensed with your two cents?" she asked tartly.

"You're the chief."

"Damn right I'm the chief," she muttered under her breath and just managed to catch his grin before he schooled his features to neutrality.

"So what do you propose we do now, Isabel?" Yoshimo asked.

"I don't know. Go over old ground I guess, until something else happens. Perhaps it is as you say and we must simply wait for his move, but we can at least make sure we have covered every inch of our own bases." She looked pointedly at Angelo, daring him to challenge her again. He refused to take the bait.

"My money is still on the necromancy angle," he said with a shrug. "I just can't see it playing any other way. He's too careful, too smart. And arrogant. It takes a special kind of arrogance to leave the bodies out in the open, knowing full well the Watch will find them. And knowing they probably won't care overmuch." He tapped the side of his jaw, whiskey eyes thoughtful. "Yes, our boy is arrogant. That will be his fatal flaw, mark my words."

Isabel considered this carefully. "Wizards aren't the only profession prone to hubris. And we've followed that lead – no one knows anything of a mage operating in the area."

"We all know that doesn't mean there isn't one, though."

"All we _know_ is that he takes pride in his work. His arrogance is borne out of his skill – be those skills magical or mundane."

"Perhaps we could use some fresh eyes." Yoshimo hesitated. "Have you asked Jaheira?"

The room was all of a sudden very still. There was no other topic Isabel would rather have _not_ discussed than that of her prickly druid guardian. Jaheira's sudden departure after their fight had cut her to the quick, and although she had returned days ago, the sting from her leaving in the first place was still all too fresh. Jaheira was supposed to be her rock, her constant. Instead, she had walked away. That she had come back did not lessen the pain any. It was an action that tasted bitterly of betrayal.

"Do not start, Yoshimo." She levelled her near-black gaze at him. Anger simmered and sizzled at a slow burn within that dark look. Angelo had to credit Yoshimo with it – he was a brave man.

"She came back, Isabel."

Angelo coughed delicately. "If you'll both excuse me, I think I'll fetch myself a cup of tea," he said and quickly extricated himself from the brewing situation. Isabel watched him leave and then turned back to the thief at her side.

"See, look what you did. You've made Angelo uncomfortable." They were the first words to come to her head and she cringed inwardly as soon as they left her mouth. Yoshimo raised an eyebrow as if to say _"Really? Is that the best argument you can come up with?"_ She shook her head. "Forget I said that. I don't know why I said that. Look Yoshimo, I really don't see how Jaheira is relevant to the discussion we were having."

Yoshimo rolled his eyes, his vexation with her plain. "You don't, do you? She is more a part of this company than any other, save yourself. She is your oldest surviving friend, save Imoen. No, I cannot possibly see how she is relevant either."

Isabel raked her fingers through her hair with unmasked annoyance. "Oh for the Gods' sake, Yoshimo!"

"She came back, Isabel. She came _back_. She didn't forsake you. Why can't you two get past this?"

"Ask her. I wasn't the one who walked away."

The thief hissed in frustration. "You are both so alike. Stubborn as mules, the pair of you."

"Oh yes, aren't we just a perfect pair of asses!" She stood up, prowling the room in circles, almost full to bursting with restless, angry energy. "This business between myself and Jaheira – whatever that business is, it is certainly none of yours."

"You are wrong. You are absolutely wrong, Isabel." Yoshimo matched heat with heat. "This... feud... or whatever you wish to call it, it affects us all. Beyond the feelings of friendship I share for you both, this pettiness –"

"_Pettiness?_"

"Yes, pettiness. To call your behaviour anything but would be an offence against my honour. It is pure pettiness to continue to punish her for leaving."

"Damn it, Yoshimo! Does no one think of the punishment she has visited upon _me_? All because I stood up and led this group when she refused. Now she chooses to resent me for _her_ decision. And you call _me_ petty!"

"Tell me, how would you characterise the leadership qualities of a woman who refuses even to speak to her second?" Isabel's eyes were hot as Yoshimo continued. "I trust you to lead this company, Isabel. We all trust you. You are our captain in this maelstrom we have found ourselves caught in. That we remain alive and together is to your credit. But this conflict with Jaheira – do not mistake me, Isabel, it _will_ tear us apart. And it will destroy you both." When she still did not speak, Yoshimo stepped forward and laid a hand upon her shoulder. "She lost her husband," he said more quietly now. "She is still grieving. Have a heart, Isabel."

"And I suppose I crawled out of that place intact and whole, did I?" Isabel's voice was soft and fierce in her own ears. "I know something of loss too, Yoshimo."

"What is going on?" Isabel and Yoshimo both spun around. Jaheira stood at the foot of the staircase, a mix of confused, turbulent emotions swirling in her cool grey-green eyes.

"Nothing," Isabel answered with a firm warning look directed at the thief before her. She tried to quell the guilt she felt, like she and Yoshimo had been caught out for some reason. Yoshimo's lips were drawn in a thin, tight line, complementing the frown of disapproval perfectly. But they remained closed. Jaheira's gaze flickered between them both, but whatever she thought of the tense silence she chose to keep it herself.

"Very well." Jaheira approached them slowly, almost unsure of how her movements might be received. When she appropriated a chair it was as far from where Isabel stood as was possible to not be considered rude.

She stared at the woman, her heart going through the motions of a hundred different feelings – anger, resentment, sadness, regret, longing. And a part of her really did want nothing more than to mend fences and bridge that awful, yawning silence that stretched between them. But she couldn't see how to do it. There were too many words said in anger, too many things that once said, could not be unsaid. Too many choices made and now they could do nothing but live with the consequences.

Yoshimo didn't understand. Couldn't. He had not lost the things she had lost. In her short life (Ha! _Short!_ She was not even one and twenty, and she had lived through more than most ever would in an entire lifetime!) He had not watched as his foster-father was murdered. He had not knelt before that tiny, worn angel in the graveyard and made so many offerings for so many friends. He had not seen, before his very eyes, his sister snatched from his hands in a flash of white light and reek of ozone.

He had called her petty. He couldn't understand what it had meant when Keto told her that evening that Jaheira was not coming back.

Over the woman's shoulder, she noticed Angelo reappear in the doorway. She watched as he and Yoshimo shared a loaded look, and her scowl deepened.

"Where is Keto?" she snapped at the group. "She should be here by now."

Yoshimo shrugged. "I have not seen her this morning."

"Why not? Aren't you supposed to be sleeping with her?" she rounded on the thief before she could stop herself. Even as the words left her mouth she knew she had let her temper run too far. His eyes glittered dangerously and she felt her face go hot.

Interruption thankfully came swiftly, as the bard in question swept through the front door.

Keto was obviously in a bad way. She was pale, her skirts were muddy, her coppery locks in complete disarray and her blue eyes were wild and unfocused. Completely ignoring the faces of her fellow companions which ranged from irritated surprise to mild concern, she was behind the bar in six long strides, uncorking a bottle of dark liquid and pouring herself a shot. She downed it in seconds before pouring another. The glass trembled between her white, white fingers.

"A little early isn't it? Even for you," Jaheira remarked coolly, although if one looked hard enough you could see genuine concern lurking behind her eyes.

"Special circumstances," she replied in an uneven voice, not looking up. Yoshimo placed his hands over her shaking ones, steadying the precariously wobbling glass. His voice was gentle, like he was speaking to a cornered animal rather than a mercenary.

"Keto, what happened? What ails you?"

Her eyes stayed fixed on the glass. "The Skinner. He killed someone else."

"The Skinner? How do you know?" Jaheira and Isabel both demanded immediately and in unison.

Keto looked up for the first time, a dark shadow crossed over her pretty face. "Because I met the poor sod in the gutter, that's why!"

Everyone was quiet as Keto related what had passed earlier that morning. When she had finished, some of her colour had returned and her voice was not quite so shaky, but that haunted look in her eyes refused to go away.

"I knew him," she said finally. "I mean, not _knew_ knew him, but I recognised him. He was one of Sam's regulars. Sat in this room at least twice a week. He was a poor tipper." She let out a watery laugh. "He was such a poor tipper. I used to think that every time he came to one of my performances. Anyone that cheap ought to be lying in a ditch somewhere. And now he is."

"It wasn't your fault," Isabel murmured.

"I know it wasn't. But now, whenever I close my eyes and see his face I'll remember that."

"He was here every week?" Angelo had not spoken up until now, his tone thoughtful. Keto nodded. "And he spent money? On drinks? Dinner, that sort of thing?"

"Yes... I mean, he wasn't overly generous, but he could afford to drink here, certainly. Why?" Her voice was puzzled, but Isabel could see the wheels turning behind his whiskey eyes. His gaze flickered to hers briefly and her breath quickened. She knew that look, the one a hound gets in his eye when he catches the scent of a hare. Their hare had slipped.

"Keto," she said, following Angelo's lead, "did he ever bring anyone here? Or have friends or certain company he preferred to drink with?"

"Sam would probably know better than I, but yes, I think he sometimes had a young woman accompanying him. I remember because she once asked me if I was ever part of the acting troupe that sometimes plays downstairs. She had wanted to be an actress when she was a little girl." Keto frowned up at both of them. "I'm not sure I understand... why are you asking me..." her voice tapered off as comprehension dawned on her. "Oh."

"Not quite so careful this time, was he?" Angelo murmured, a wolfish gleam in his eye.

"Okay, this changes the game." Isabel rubbed her hands together. "He's broken his pattern. This wasn't some lonely, forgotten pauper on the streets. This man had connections, had people in his life. And if we're lucky, someone might be able to tell us where he was when the Skinner found him. Would Sam know his name, know if he had any family we could chase down?"

"Sam knows just about everything that happens in this part of town." Keto replied and then thought of Bel Dalemark and she smiled genuinely for the first time since she had stumbled in the alley. "And if he doesn't, I know just the fellow who might."

"Brilliant." Isabel turned to Yoshimo. "I'll need you to speak to Aegisfield. He needs to be updated on the break, but more importantly, you need to ensure he knows to play this dumb. If the Skinner doesn't know yet that he made a mistake, I don't want a guard crowing about it in a tavern to tip him off."

"I agree. Angelo and I will apprise the Inspector of the situation."

Isabel frowned. "You can't have Angelo."

"Why not?" She felt her skin heat at the flat, uncompromising challenge in his eyes.

"Because."

He lifted his eyebrows gracefully whilst she floundered. Her flush deepened and she felt all eyes in the room on her, waiting for her to scramble for any sort of explanation other than the truth no one wanted to say out loud.

"Because it would mean working with me," Jaheira answered icily. All but one, it seemed. Jaheira stared at her pointedly, arms folded. "I thought I might save us all the awkwardness by addressing the proverbial elephant in the room."

_Right, because this is _less_ awkward,_ Isabel found herself thinking rebelliously.

"Is my company that deplorable to you that you cannot stomach the notion of my company?" she pressed.

"Oh that's rich!" Isabel snapped, equal parts embarrassed and furious. "Coming from the person who skipped off for three days without bothering to tell anyone where you were going or even if you intended to come back! Evidently, _I_ am the one whose company cannot be stomached."

Jaheira flinched. "You made it more than clear that you did not need me here." Her voice hardened. "Just as you do now."

"That is the biggest load of _bull_–" she forced herself to stop, pressing the heel of her hand to her temple. When she opened her eyes, she was glaring at the thief responsible for orchestrating the entire scene. "Angelo stays with me."

"He will be more useful with me than with you. He is the only person in the group, aside from yourself, who has a relationship with Aegisfield," Yoshimo replied mildly, but his face was hard.

"Actually, Yoshimo is probably right," Angelo added. _Of _course _he would make things difficult._ "The meeting will go over more smoothly if I talk to him. It will not flatter his ego to speak to one of your lackeys."

"You _are_ my lackey."

He smiled crookedly. "Yes, but he doesn't know that."

"You see Isabel? This arrangement will work out the best for everyone." Yoshimo interjected smoothly. As he turned to leave, she gripped his arm and drew him close enough to whisper in his ear.

"Yoshimo," she warned in an undertone. "You don't want to do this."

"I do not," he replied softly. "But it is high time you summoned the maturity to deal with this matter. Consider this exercise a nudge in the right direction."

Isabel watched the retreating backs of her two men, quietly seething at the minor coup Yoshimo had just won at her expense. She glanced back at Jaheira. Well, she could say this much for the thief – he had at least succeeded in uniting them insofar as judging by her expression, she wanted Yoshimo to suffer a painful and undignified end almost as much as she did.

xxx

His name had been Remy and his wife lived only three streets away from where his corpse had been left for the crows. Isabel stared at the quiet, unassuming house with its characteristic red bricks and tried to paint a picture of the kind of man who used to live there. He had children, a boy and a girl. A family man, maybe?

"His wife is in there?" Keto asked. She stood on her right side, shading her eyes against the sun's glare.

"I suppose so."

"Do you think she even knows she's now a widow?"

"If not, she is about to find out," Jaheira answered grimly. "This is not a task I will relish," she added, almost to herself. One widow to another, Isabel thought bleakly. She steeled herself and knocked.

A woman, who had likely once been considered beautiful though time had not been so kind to her recently, opened the door. She looked each of them up and down and planted her hands firmly upon her hips.

"Are you a whore?" she demanded of Isabel.

Isabel was flabbergasted. "Umm... excuse me?" she stammered, completely taken aback. The woman harrumphed and turned her glare toward Keto.

"What about you, hmm? You're a pretty one, ain't you? Look at those big blue eyes! Bet the fellas love bouncing around on top of you, aye? And you," she pointed now at Jaheira whose mouth was slightly ajar. "You're a mean looking woman, but there are them that pay extra for that aye? The ones looking for a bit of 'discipline'? Oh I bet you're good with a whip, I just bet you are."

"_I beg your pardon!"_ Jaheira spluttered, trying – and failing – to maintain her composure in the face of such an accusation.

"You may beg all you please, you shall not have it," the woman replied. "So these are Remy's whores. Tell me, which one of you is Rose?"

"We are _not_ whores." Isabel said firmly.

"Fine, _'working women'_ then," the woman rolled her eyes in derision.

"Madam, I assure you –"

"Your husband is dead." Surprised, Isabel glanced back at Keto. Her features were sombre – it was an unusual look for someone Isabel had grown accustomed to see smiling.

"Damn right he is if that lousy, loathsome excuse for a husband dares to show his hide on this street again –"

"Remy is _dead_," Keto repeated. She looked Remy's embittered wife dead in the eye. The woman paled slightly.

"I don't understand."

"I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad tidings, madam, but Remy's body was found a few streets from here," Isabel supplied quickly. "We believe he was murdered last night by the perpetrator of several recent murders in the Bridge, a man known as the Skinner."

"The Skinner? The Skinner killed my Remy?"

"Yes, I'm sorry madam." Her hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh, my Lord Helm! I cannot believe this!"

"I am sorry," Isabel repeated again. How hollow those words were.

Then she surprised them all by throwing back her head and roaring with laughter.

"Ha ha ha! If this isn't divine justice, I know not what is!" she cackled. She was all but weeping from mirth, although Isabel couldn't fathom just what was so hilarious.

"I am not sure I follow," she began. Remy's wife continued to chuckle.

"Don't you see?" she insisted gleefully. "That rotten bastard was out last night, gallivanting about with that cheap little slut of his and lo and behold! He gets done in by the Skinner! Ha! Tonight I'm lighting a candle for this saviour, this man who has finally, _finally_ freed me from my wretched excuse for a husband!"

"Ah, if I might ask, do you know the name or where we might find the –" Isabel groped for a word that wouldn't encourage the woman's impressive ire "– _working woman_ your husband was with?"

"Why on earth would you want to talk to that slattern for?" she demanded. "Oh never mind, I don't care. Her name is Rose. Would you _believe_, he used to spout her name in our bed? And then tried to cover it up by calling me 'his rose.' Bah! Good riddance to him! And good riddance to you!"

And with that she slammed the door in their collective stunned faces.

"Well," Isabel struggled to find the words to describe the encounter. "Well." It was all she could come up with.

"Who knew a person could hold such rage in her heart for one she once loved?" Jaheira wondered aloud.

"I suppose not everyone's marriages are to be envied," Isabel replied.

"'Heaven knows not a rage, nor hell a fury,'" Keto murmured. Her blue eyes were sad. "If you will both excuse me a moment," and she turned back to the house and knocked on the door.

"What do you want?"

Keto's hand dipped into her pocket and pulled something out. The woman snatched the tiny object from her outstretched palm, her face cracking slightly, for the first time yielding an emotion other than sheer, boundless anger and resentment.

When Keto returned, Jaheira asked her what she had given her. Keto smiled sadly.

"It was his wedding ring. After all, she couldn't hate him so much if there wasn't still a part of her that loved him too."

xxx

Angelo found her outside, attempting to beat a sand bag bloody in the courtyard behind the inn's kitchen. Though the evening air was cool, a sure sign of the season, Isabel had stripped off her jacket and wore little more than leggings and a loose shirt, the sleeves pushed up above her elbows as she pummelled away her frustrations. She fought the same way she seemed to approach everything else in her life – swiftly, capably and driven by a sheer bloody-mindedness that some might argue bordered on madness.

A man could admire that brand of spirit, he thought to himself as he watched her right leg lash out in a vicious scissor-cut, snapping the bag clean off its hook. But he damn well better be sure he was wary of it too.

"No need to ask how your day was then I take it?" he remarked dryly. Though she kept her back turned to him, Isabel grinned ruefully as she stared at the bruised and battered bag in front of her.

"Guess not," she replied. Angling her head over her shoulder, she asked, "Are you going to stand there or come over here and give me a hand with it?"

Angelo obliged, stooping down to help lift the heavy weight of it as she worked at reattaching it to the iron clip that suspended the sandbag from a rope looped around a beam.

"Yoshimo send you out here to check on me?" she asked, her brown eyes fixed on the task at hand. Angelo grunted under the weight of the sack.

"I'm not your nursemaid. I just stepped outside for some air."

"Hmm." With a faint _click_, the clip locked into place and Angelo let the bag go gently, testing its strength. It held. She caught him studying her from behind it, and a familiar frown creased her features.

"I thought today went well?"

"I suppose that depends on what you define as 'well'. We managed to find the last person who was with him – the Skinner jumped our victim in an alley while he was with one of the local prostitutes."

"How did she get away?"

"I'm not sure, she was... less than coherent when we spoke to her. Just kept muttering about solik berries and mumbleberry pie. I'll take another pass at her tomorrow."

"It sounds like a solid lead, though." Angelo said as he watched her. "And yet, you appear less than thrilled."

Isabel rubbed her eyes tiredly. "We spoke to his wife. His _wife_, not his whore. She was so... bitter. Just bitter and empty, it was awful. How can anyone carry around that much hate for someone?" She shook her head. "I don't know why it's eating at me so. Keto said something earlier... she said 'Heaven knows not a rage –"

"– Nor hell a fury like that of a woman scorned," Angelo finished. "_The Mourning Bride._ Not a half-bad play, actually." He caught her incredulous stare and she saw amusement glimmering in his own.

"Since when can you quote playwrights?"

"And here you thought I was just a pretty face." Isabel scowled in reply.

"Angelo, you are a constant study in confounding expectations," she informed him, ushering a quiet chuckle from her former adversary. "What does it mean?"

Angelo shrugged philosophically, but something in his face shifted slightly. Distance, she thought. _But distance from what? _"It means the people we love are the people who can hurt us the most." His expression was shrewd when he finally met her eyes. "Apt."

One word that was loaded with meaning, she thought. And Isabel had an uncomfortable feeling she knew exactly what meaning too. She held that look for a long time, and felt her ire rising in the back of her throat when what she saw in Angelo's face confirmed her suspicions.

"Yoshimo did send you out here to check on me, didn't he?" Angelo opened his mouth in denial, but seemed to think better of it and instead shrugged an apology. Isabel hissed, pushing the sandbag away from her with a force that surprised the mercenary behind it. "You work for _me_, damn it Angelo! What the hell are you doing taking orders from Yoshimo?"

"He didn't order me, it was a request," Angelo replied mildly. "In my defence, I did tell him you probably wouldn't appreciate it."

"Well thank you _very_ much for arriving at that stunning conclusion." She glared at him. "I don't need a handler."

"He was simply concerned, Isabel," Angelo said. _He's not the only one, either,_ he thought to himself. Although his concerns might be less than altruistic, he could admit.

"After that stunt he pulled this morning, I shouldn't be surprised! Gods!" She was pacing, frustration, anger, grief – she could feel it boiling inside her veins. It was like a bubble in her throat, and all her pent up feelings were just feeding and feeding it and if she didn't let it burst she was afraid it would suffocate her. And like a bubble, all it took was one tiny prick of the needle for it to explode. "Tell him he can shove his concern, I am fine."

Angelo raised his hands in truce. He didn't say it, but Isabel could almost hear the words he kept locked behind his lips. And that somehow pissed her off even more. Whether it had been Sarevok or some other before him who had trained Angelo to keep what she now knew to be a sharp tongue locked behind his teeth, it drove her insane to know she was being silently weighed and measured.

"If you have something to say, say it." The challenge was out of her mouth before she even realised it.

"He wasn't wrong." Angelo's head had snapped up. "Yoshimo wasn't wrong to force your hand this morning. And you are not fine. None of this is fine."

Isabel folded her arms over her chest to keep them from shaking. "Excuse me?"

"You were refusing to deal with Jaheira. It's a problem, for you, for her, for everyone in this party and you wouldn't deal with it. Instead, you are both hell bent on digging your heels in and frankly, it makes for shoddy leadership."

"You know what? I take it back. Go back to not talking."

"Don't you see, this is exactly your problem. Stop behaving like a –"

"A what? Go ahead; Yoshimo has already called me an ass once today."

"I wasn't going to say 'ass.' I was going to say stop behaving like a child," he retorted.

"A child?" Isabel repeated, raising her eyebrows at his audacity.

"Yes, a child!" he snapped. "Grow up, Isabel. Swallow your pride and your stubbornness and do what needs to be done. You're either a leader or you're not."

Isabel stood quietly for a long moment. Angelo wondered if he had stepped too far – oh Hells, what was he thinking, he knew he had. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ He berated himself inwardly. _What the hell happened to keeping your head down and mouth shut, Dosan? What the hell ever happened to that?_ The arms that she had wrapped around herself were probably the only two things in the world that were standing between him and a short, brutal death. Well, he was in it now.

"You do realise, I could probably resolve this entire thing right now if I went upstairs right now, knocked on her door and told her I had changed my mind about you." Her voice was dangerously low. "You stand there and lecture me about not dealing with the problem, but you forget that _you_ are the problem here."

"No," Angelo replied, his throat was bone dry. "No, I'm not. I might have believed that before, but not now. My presence here might be a fault line, but I am not the cause of your fighting. This goes deeper than me. And if you were of that mind, if you believed for even a second it was that simple to fix things with her, I would have been dead long before now." He snorted. "I'm hardly worth it."

"The hypocrisy of this conversation is almost unimaginable," she said softly, more to herself than to him. "What the hell are you doing here, Angelo?"

"I... What?" The question caught him completely by surprise.

"I do not understand you. You wish to play counsellor, compel me to make peace with a woman who would see you dead. Why?"

"I have no desire to play counsellor, Isabel. This situation benefits no one, least of all me. As you so blithely pointed out, Jaheira of Tethyr is hardly my biggest fan. If you cannot control her, what is to stop her from slitting my throat in my sleep?"

"Just looking out for number one, are you? No," she answered her own question softly. "No, I don't quite believe that either. Why are you here? Why of all the mercenary companies in Athkatla did you seek mine out? Why?"

He did not answer. She snorted softly, as if this surprised her not one bit. "You were right before. I won't send you away. We both know I need you too much to do something so... childish. But do not, do _not_ for one second mistake that for having my trust."

She turned on heel and walked back toward the warm, yellow light of the inn. Angelo watched her leave, a familiar sickness curled in the pit of his stomach. He would have to find answers for her questions soon. As the door closed behind her, leaving him alone in the gathering darkness, he slumped down onto the low stone bench and let his head fall into his hands. _Very_ soon.

xxx

Rose Bouquet sat before the cracked mirror and brushed her cheekbones with a soft, pastel pink blush. She pretended she didn't notice the slight trembling of her fingers, or the red rims that framed her big brown eyes. She pretended, desperately, that the past two days had never happened.

She jumped at the soft knock on her door and tried to quell the rapid hammering of heart against her ribcage when she realised it was simply one of the Madame's girls, informing her that her next customer would be arriving in a few minutes. _Business_, she told her reflection firmly. She needed to focus. She couldn't think about the previous night, about Remy, about dark men in dark alleys with dark purposes.

But heaven help her, how could she think of anything but? She closed her eyes. She was right there in that alley again. Remy had often told her he loved her, whispered promises of a life far away from the Madame and the brothel. He had vowed to marry her, time and time again. They had been sweet lies, she thought, even though she had known better than to believe them. A man did not drop down on one knee for the woman he asked to get down on hers in some dirty, forgotten backstreet.

She remembered kneeling before him, soft moans turned to muffled screams when a gloved hand clamped over his mouth. She could see the whites of his eyes wide with terror when that hand dragged him backwards. A curse uttered, when its owner realised she was there, staring helplessly up at them from the cobblestoned ground. That strange, sweet, sickly scent of berries.

She remembered running for her life.

Rose wiped her eyes, trying not to smear her heavily made-up porcelain face. _Berries_, she found herself thinking. Such an odd thing to remember. Like the mumbleberry pie her mother had once baked for her sisters when she was a little girl.

No, she thought absently, rising to answer the second knock at her door. Not quite like the pie of her childhood. Similar, but not the same. Actually, thinking about it now, it reminded her a little bit like the scent she would occasionally catch from the local tannery. Maybe she would mention it to the Wren woman who had questioned her earlier that afternoon.

"Hello there, handsome," she purred, opening the door for her client. She slipped into her business persona with an ease that surprised her. Habit, she supposed. The man bobbed his head in acknowledgement and closed the door behind him. It was a polite gesture, probably borne out of shyness, Rose thought. He was still wearing his cloak and his hood was up, obscuring his face. Rose allowed herself a relieved sigh. This evening would be simple at least. First-timers were often the easiest marks.

"Why don't we take that big cloak off you, honey?" she cooed, moving toward him, lips curving into a sly little smile. "Must be awful warm in there. Let Rosie get a look at you, tall, dark and handsome."

"Hmm." His carefully manicured fingertips glided over her face, tracing the contours of her cheek, unexpectedly warm when they lingered at the base of her throat. Suddenly they were fisted in her hair. "I don't think so. You have already seen far too much, little girl." He shoved her violently onto the bed. It was punctuated by a sickening crack as her head hit the corner of the bed post.

Rose was dizzy, dazed. Blood trickled down from the cut on her head. She opened her mouth to cry for help, but no sound came out. Panicky, she tried again. And again. The dark man chuckled, a deep, throaty, dreadful sound. He perched on the edge of the bed, stoking her face in a parody of tenderness.

"It is nothing but a simple silencing spell, Rose." He had a soft, slightly accented voice. It might have been considered lovely had it not been filled with such a quiet menace. "It is unfortunate it turned out this way. You were never chosen. Had you not been in that alley..." He cupped the side of her terrified face and watched intently as the light in those wide, brown eyes winked out. Folding his hands in his lap, the man surveyed the young girl staring lifelessly back at him with something akin to regret. "Such a waste," he murmured with a tiny shake of his head. "Such a waste."

* * *

_Extra points if someone can name the oft misquoted writer Keto an Angelo both reference in the chapter._


	9. Dressed In Scarlet

_Author's Note: It is amazing how inspired one gets when they have other pressing work to be doing! Hope everyone enjoys the product of my procrastination. This story may just cost me the semester._

_(I do apologise to all my faithful readers for the inconsistent updates. Thank you all for bearing with me.)_

**8 – Dressed In Scarlet**

Isabel kept a brisk pace as she led her company of five through the front door of Madame Vera's House of Pleasure. No one questioned them as she marched them up the flight of stairs behind the front desk of the brothel and down a long corridor. Angelo ignored the soft moans and muffled cries from behind the closed doors they passed. Despite the late hour, no one in the immediate vicinity would be asleep this eve. For everyone, himself now included, it was a work night.

Even if she hadn't already known where she was going, the guard posted outside Rose Bouquet's bedroom door would have been a dead giveaway, he thought. He nodded at Isabel as they approached.

"Miss Wren?" The guard kept his voice carefully courteous.

"Is Aegisfield inside?" Isabel asked curtly, dispensing with any pleasantries. Angelo could see it in her stance that she was in no mood to tap dance with this officer, not when her only witness was lying lifeless upon a bed on the other side of the door. He almost felt like offering a prayer for the single watchman standing between such a woman and what she wanted.

"The Inspector will be here shortly. He instructed me to ensure no one enters the room until he arrives. Miss Wren." The guard swallowed visibly, as if he already had a fairly good idea about how such a directive was going to be received. Angelo caught his eyes darting nervously to the four mercenaries behind her and the grim smile that graced her lips. The Inspector clearly had not told the young man to expect Miss Wren to bring a party to his murder scene.

"Officer?" Her voice was dangerously low.

"Ma'am, the Inspector was very clear –"

"Officer, there are five of us and one of you. I _am_ going to go through that door. Now, I am quite happy to let you tell the Inspector that we overwhelmed you, or we could you know, _actually_ overwhelm you." She waited half a beat as he took them all her, Jaheira smiled politely at the guard while she adjusted her grip on her weapon. He paled. "Your choice," she said quietly.

The guard tore his gaze away from the druid. "I think I might step over to the side. That scuffle with your man when he tried to get past my defence has left me feeling a bit poorly."

Isabel smiled at him indulgently. "I think you might too."

"You fought valiantly, son," Yoshimo winked as he passed and Angelo ducked his head, hiding a smirk of his own. His expression swiftly sobered as he entered Rose's room however.

It was not the gruesome tableau Angelo had expected. No gore or sinew, scarcely a whiff of that sickly perfume of death. Rather, the scene he surveyed at first glance appeared perfectly ordinary. He stood in the middle of a bedroom – no, _boudoir_ was probably the better term, what with the heavy-on-scarlet approach taken to decorating. It struck him as rather tacky, as it so often did when he paid a visit to such an establishment, although realistically he knew you couldn't expect much more from a low-to-middle-class brothel. Rose herself lay across the large four poster bed, blonde hair strewn across the carmine pillows. She might even have been sleeping, if you ignored her open lifeless eyes and the trickle of dried blood on the side of her temple.

Isabel knelt down beside her, staring for a long time into her brown eyes. Her own eyes were unreadable as she placed one hand over the girl's face and closed her eyes for her.

"She's still – she still has all her –" Keto gulped.

"Skin?" Isabel finished for her, resting her palms on her knees. "Yes, yes she does. I doubt very much Rose was killed for her blemish-free complexion. She was killed because someone did not want her to be talking to us."

"But she didn't see anything!" Keto ran a hand through her still tousled hair from being roused from her bed. Confusion clouded her blue eyes. "She didn't even see his face. We spoke to her only hours ago and she could barely string a sentence together. She herself did not understand what she saw."

"But we might have," Angelo reminded her. "Just because it didn't make sense to her, it does not follow that someone else could not have found a clue within her testimony that might lead us back to him."

"Did we?" Yoshimo asked the room. "Find a clue within her testimony, I mean."

Isabel sighed in frustration. "Not as such." She rocked back on her heels, brown eyes angry. "I should have seen this coming," he heard her mutter under her breath. Angelo found himself crouching down beside her.

"You can't beat yourself up over this," he murmured. "The poor girl was probably marked for death from the moment he saw her in that alley."

"Exactly," she whispered back fiercely, still facing the bed. "It didn't even cross my mind that she might be a target. And she's dead because of it." Instinctively, Angelo reached out and laid a calloused palm on her shoulder. He recognized his mistake even before she flinched at the light touch. Her neck snapped around and he met her furious eyes for barely a second before she abruptly rose to her feet. Angelo sighed. He had been around long enough to recognize a dismissal when presented with one.

He watched her cross the room for a moment, rubbing his neck absently at the tension building there. She was still angry with him, that much was clear. Not that Angelo had by any stretch of the imagination expected her to forgive and forget overnight, but he supposed one always held onto the idle hope of a miracle. He knew he had pushed her hard in the courtyard. He just wasn't entirely sure why.

_But then,_ he thought as he shook his head, as if trying to shake off the exhaustion headache he could feel building there, _what have I ever been sure of since I got it into my head to join this Gods-forsaken company? _Yoshimo caught his eye and Angelo rose from his crouch as the thief approached.

"I must admit, this is not quite how I imagined I would spend an evening in such a place as this," Yoshimo commented lightly.

"I suppose not." Angelo's answering smile felt tight across his face as he glanced down at the broken doll on the bed. He did not feel the anger that Isabel felt for Rose Bouquet. He didn't feel that outrage, that indignity at a life taken before their time. But he did feel a weariness when he looked at her – an empty, bone-deep weariness of a man who had seen too much death in his life.

"What do you suppose Aegisfield will make of this?"

"Nothing good, I imagine." Angelo sighed, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his battered leather jacket. "We haven't precisely been upholding our end of the bargain. Two dead in two days, that's bad. Very bad."

Yoshimo nodded slowly. "She blames herself?" Angelo glanced back at the thief, not fooled by the casual tone of the query.

"Don't do that," he said finally, turning his gaze back to the body.

"I am not sure I follow...?"

"Don't ask me to handle her. I work for her, not for you. I do not know why the hell I ever let you talk me into doing so in the first place."

"Angelo, what passed between the two of you earlier?" Yoshimo's asked him quietly, dark eyes concerned. Angelo snorted.

"Nothing," he muttered. "I overstepped my bounds. I shouldn't open my damn mouth. No good ever seems to come of it."

"You angered her."

"An understatement if ever I heard one." He sighed heavily. "Now she's even more pissed off with me, when really, she should just be pissed with you. It was your damn idea after all."

"I apologise. I did not mean to offend your loyalties. She was refusing to listen to me. I merely hoped that you might be able to make her see reason."

Angelo laughed as if Yoshimo had just told him a very funny joke. "Gods Yoshimo, whatever gave you the impression in the first place that my opinion held any such sway for her?"

The thief shrugged. "She chooses to work with you more often than not. She seems more... amenable, to you I suppose. She listens when you speak, even when you say something she does not necessarily wish to hear."

"Yoshimo, look around. Everyone she has ever known is either dead or lost or is waging a silent war against her over who can do the best cold shoulder. With respect, you and the bard are both relative strangers. You think she works with me because she has a choice? That she finds my company preferable is only because the alternative would mean she has to work alongside Jaheira. That, or letting Jaheira work alongside _me_, and let me tell you, that would end very poorly for yours truly. I am who she is _left_ with." He stopped for a breath, glancing at Isabel a moment. She was a complicated creature, but pain he knew, was almost always simple. And Isabel was, at the heart of it, a creature in agony. "She is angry and alone. She can put up with me because she _doesn't_ give a damn about my opinion. She does not have to pretend because I have no worth. Do not mistake that for trust." His mouth twisted slightly as he echoed her words. "So, don't. Don't involve me in plotting behind her back again. I understand why you did, but my position here is precarious enough as it is."

"We were not plotting behind her back, Angelo," Yoshimo said quietly after a moment. "You cast an unfair offence upon both my honour and your own by implying so."

"I have no honour to speak of, Yoshimo."

"It is funny, I find that very difficult to fathom and yet you speak those words with the conviction of a priest."

Angelo shrugged off the thief's observation indifferently. "You are not quite as good a judge of character as you think if you truly believe that," he informed him. "But believe as you will."

Yoshimo raised an eyebrow at the finality in Angelo's voice. "Perhaps," he replied. "I do hope not, however. I fancy I've made my life by reading people. It would be unsettling to think it was a life built upon a fallacy.

Angelo's mouth twitched. It was hard not to appreciate Yoshimo's eternally good-natured manner of telling you that he thought you something of a fool. Nonetheless, a few kind words from a man who barely knew him or the things he had done did not amount to very much in the end. Angelo knew himself far too well for that.

"What do you _mean_ "they're inside"?" A familiar voice barked from the corridor. "Are you so utterly inept that you cannot restrain a single woman from doing as she pleases?"

"Looks like Daddy's home," Isabel remarked to no one in particular just as the door slammed open to reveal a very irate Inspector Aegisfield.

"Where in the Nine Hells is Wren?" Aegisfield demanded of Angelo, who had found himself in the unfortunate position of being directly in the Inspector's eye line. He glanced apologetically at the beet red guard standing behind him, knowing full well what it meant to be on the foul side of a captain's temper. It was by no means an enviable position.

"Why Inspector, what an unexpected surprise!" Isabel smiled pleasantly at him. Angelo recognised that smile; the one Isabel wore when she was at her most determined to be contrary. Aegisfield glared at her furiously.

"Who precisely do you think you are, Wren, to manhandle and order about an officer of the Watch? To ignore my _direct _command?"

Isabel's demeanour chilled perceptively. "I was thinking, Inspector, that I am neither your servant nor subordinate. I am not obligated to adhere to your command."

The Inspector looked vaguely apoplectic. "We have a contract, Wren. The deal was to work _for me_ to find this killer."

"We have a contract which obliges my company to find this killer, yes, but our _deal_ was for who takes the credit. You have no business interfering in an investigation that is yours only in name. So I ask _you_, Inspector, why there was a damn guard trying to prevent me from entering this room?"

One couldn't help but admire how swiftly she was able to turn the tables on someone, Angelo thought approvingly as Aegisfield struggled to regain his composure.

"I fail to see how the death of a local whore is relevant to _your_ investigation," he said, placing deliberate emphasis on the word.

"Remarkable, Inspector. Tell me, when the sole witness to a crime unexpectedly drops dead in her room, what do you surmise is the logical connection?"

Aegisfield's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, his gaze travelled to the dead woman in the room. "She witnessed one of the murders? Your men made no mention of this development."

Isabel glanced back at Rose, her eyes flat. "She claimed she was with the last victim in an alley when the Skinner jumped them. She managed to escape, although it appears he has since caught up with her."

"I reiterate, Wren; why was I not informed?"

"It was a new development. We were unaware if she had actually witnessed the Skinner when my men delivered their report."

"But you were aware of her existence as a potential witness?"

Isabel drew her mouth into a taut line. The entire tone of the conversation was reminding her eerily of those times when Ulraunt had taken her to task for some fault of hers, real or perceived. It irked her on principle, her hackles rising instinctively. But still, she thought as she bore down under the hard stare of the Watch Inspector, Aegisfield barely rated the comparison with her loathsome tutor. Nor was this some grand game of hers and Imoen's, not some fanciful prank played to slight an authority figure for sport. Rose Bouquet could attest to that.

So she would behave like an adult, and answer for her conduct. "Yes. Yes, I was aware."

If she noticed Jaheira's raised eyebrow, or the faint crease of Keto's forehead, she gave no indication of it. As for Aegisfield, the man appeared somewhat mollified by her concession.

"Why did you not inform me? Either before or after you confirmed her as a witness?"

"I feared that if officers of the City Watch were to be seen with Miss Bouquet it might alert the Skinner and send him into the wind. With all due respect, Inspector, my crew do not attract the same sort of attention as a uniform."

"If the murderer knew her to be a witness, then it was only ever a matter of time before he came for her." Aegisfield's frown deepened. "If you had told me, this might have been prevented. We would have had options. We could have had eyes on her... Hells, Wren, we probably could have used her as –"

"Used her as what?" Jaheira's head snapped up sharply. "Bait?"

Aegisfield met the druid's outraged glare gravely. "Exactly. The problem with the Skinner is that we never know where he will strike next. His choices are random, arbitrary. This was an opportunity, one your leader squandered most profoundly."

"His choices aren't so arbitrary," Angelo pointed out. He leaned against the wall, for all the world appearing as if he were examining the room's fixtures. Only his words and the deceptive lightness of his tone suggested otherwise. "Up until two days ago, he adhered to what was a very consistent profile. Paupers, beggars, prostitutes without the protection of a brothel – the sort of people whose deaths could and would be easily dismissed. Were it not for the deliberate style of the killings... but even that was largely overlooked by the Watch." He raised his chin and looked the Inspector directly in the eye. "Please Inspector, let us not pretend that the City Watch did not play the part assigned to them near-flawlessly."

Aegisfield's mouth was drawn in a razor thin line, but Angelo could see in his eyes that he had already recognised the hard truth in Angelo's words. That said, Angelo noted wryly, Aegisfield would probably offer himself and his entire guardhouse to the Skinner on a silver platter before admitting in front of Isabel's rat tag company that he had made a mistake.

"Well, I suppose naught can change what has been done," Aegisfield replied finally. "All we can do for her and for the city is find her killer before he claims another and bring him to the Council's swift justice."

"The first bit of sense I have heard all eve," Jaheira said briskly. "Perhaps now, I might be allowed to examine this poor woman's body to ascertain how she died. Do you intend to stay and supervise us, Inspector?"

Aegisfield met the druid's steely gaze for a moment before shaking his head shortly. "Nay, I shall take my leave of you now. Wren," he glanced back at Isabel. There was no warmth in that look. "The City Watch continues to place its trust in you and your company. Do try and bring this bastard down _before_ he kills again, would you?"

Isabel nodded curtly as the Inspector turned on heel, beckoning for the embarrassed-looking guard to follow as he swept out of the room. She stared at the empty doorway for a good minute, hands thrust deep in her pockets, her expression decidedly grim. To Angelo's surprise, it was Jaheira who approached the girl first.

"The Inspector is obviously not the wisest man to walk this earth, but he was correct in one thing. Isabel," Jaheira added. Isabel glanced over her shoulder at the older woman with faint surprise. She stood behind, her elegant grey eyes downcast. "It would be the more foolish course of action to blame yourself for what is past. You cannot change her fate. But you can see her murderer brought to task for his crimes."

"'Accept what you cannot change...?'" Isabel asked, the barest hint of a smile playing on her lips. Jaheira raised her chin to meet her charge's gaze and softened at the old adage she had repeated so many times to two wilful teenagers she had once chased up and down the Sword Coast. It was not quite an olive branch, but it was a step.

"Come. Perhaps Rose may help us in death where she could not in life."

Isabel turned back to the bed. Keto had pushed up her sleeves and was now kneeling beside the body, a frown creasing her pale forehead. She glanced up as the other two women joined her.

"There are no marks on her other than that cut on her head. And it doesn't appear as if that blow was hard enough to have killed her."

"I believe she must have hit her head on this," Yoshimo remarked, running a gloved finger over the wooden bedpost. He held it up so they could see the blood smeared across his index finger. "Perhaps he threw her down?"

"Or she might simply have been clumsy," Isabel noted.

"Clumsy or not, Keto is correct," Jaheira replied, her fingers working quickly and efficiently in her examination. Her hands stilled as they passed over the young woman's throat. "The blow to her head was most certainly not what killed her. Concussed her, possibly, but definitely not lethal." She rocked back on her heels, her expression grave. "Dark magic took place here."

There were several sharp intakes of breath. "You are sure?" Isabel demanded.

"I have been a healer long before you even considered strapping on a blade, Isabel. I know what a fatal head blow looks like. Without any other signs of physical trauma... she might have been poisoned, but there is a foul energy in this room. It's faint, but..."

"Death magic usually leaves an energy signature," Keto murmured. "Sometimes people who are attuned to the Weave, or if you are connected to the natural energy of the world," she looked up at Jaheira who nodded, "you can sense when it has been used recently."

"It is a great offense against Nature," Jaheira agreed grimly. "Although, forgive me Keto, but I would not have thought given your level of magical training that you would have noticed."

Keto shrugged. "Oh, I can't feel a thing. I just figured you probably could, is all."

"Her pupils have blown," Yoshimo observed, peering over Keto's shoulder.

"I've seen it before, when an enemy has fallen to a death spell from the necromantic school," Angelo remarked. Isabel turned, one eyebrow raised. Angelo shrugged. "I've known a few mages in my time, and they are usually belonging to the chatty sort." He pushed off the wall, his face an impenetrable mask. "Guess this means I was right. Our boy is a mage, and not a poor one at that."

"That is unfortunate then," Yoshimo said quietly, frowning. "It takes many years to become accomplished in the black arts, and no small amount of natural skill either. Not my personal choice for an adversary."

Isabel was frowning too. "I don't know," she said uncertainly. "Rose said that in the alley, he came at Remy from behind with a knife. If he's a mage, why not spell them? It would have been easier. Quieter. No muss, no fuss. Why risk a physical confrontation when it is unnecessary?"

"If he was following Remy, stalking him, he would know Remy had been pretty far down the neck of the bottle that night. Perhaps he felt confident attacking a drunk," Keto said. "But still, then he would have known beforehand that Rose was there..." The bard's voice trailed off puzzled.

"Perhaps he feared a confrontation with the Cowled Wizards more," Angelo said, but Yoshimo was already shaking his head.

"Nay, I doubt it. He has to be licensed; even a heavily warded house would not protect him from detection entirely. Not if he is practicing the black arts. I would be astonished if the Wizards were not being paid an inordinate sum to turn the other cheek."

"Even with the high profile of the murders?" Jaheira demanded. The thief shrugged simply.

"The Cowled Wizards answer to no one, least of all the Athkatlan brass. They care only insofar that another wizard does not threaten their own agenda."

Isabel muttered something _very_ vulgar under her breath. "Regardless, it's still a risk he should not have had to take. Nothing we have so far discovered about him suggests he is a fool, so why?"

"Rose Bouquet was killed magically, Isabel," Angelo said sharply. "It would be a coincidence of remarkable proportions if barely two days after she witnesses the local serial killer take her lover, someone completely unconnected just happens to off her with a death spell."

"I was not born yesterday on the back of the turnip wagon, Angelo," Isabel snapped. Her brown eyes were flinty. "It does not make sense. Why would he use a damn knife in the alley? Why?"

"Perhaps he simply likes knives, Isabel," Jaheira remarked quietly. "He would not be the first wizard of our acquaintance to do so."

The girl's jaw stiffened at the remark and Angelo thought he saw for the briefest of seconds, something dark and ugly cross Isabel's face.

"Still," Yoshimo offered. "It does not do to dismiss any possibility, no matter how trivial it appears. Isabel is quite right to ask questions. I would not see our group follow the same path as our delightful Inspector and blind ourselves to any evidence that does not fit with the most popular theory." Angelo suppressed a scowl. _That_ subtly veiled rebuke had obviously been aimed at him. "Come friends, let us leave. There is little to be gained by arguing here."

Slowly, the others nodded. It was if the evening's adrenalin had suddenly ebbed away and exhaustion, ever quick to take its place, had settled over everyone's shoulders. One by one, the group walked through the door and back towards the inn. Keto found herself lingering a moment.

"Keto?" Yoshimo asked, pausing in the door frame. He watched her with concern as the bard wrapped her fingers around those of the dead courtesan. It was a simple act, but one that struck him in its profound expression of humanity.

"She shouldn't be left alone. No one should be alone in death."

He crossed the room silently to her side. "She won't be alone," he murmured softly, gently prying Keto's fingers from Rose's lifeless hand. "We will call for a priest of Ilmater. The Crying God will watch over her. She won't be alone. Come now. It is time to go."

xxx

Keto lay flat on her bed, blue eyes staring blankly at the ceiling and at the flickering shadows cast by the solitary candle burning beside her. She was aware dimly that the dawn would soon be approaching and the sensible thing would be to try and salvage as much sleep as possible before then. For all that common wisdom however, Keto knew that if she closed her eyes she would be visited by the ghosts of Remy and Rose, and that thought alone she knew, would keep her eyes fixed on the shadow-play above for a good while yet.

She heard someone knock softly on her door. "It's unlocked," she answered, her gaze still drawn heavenward. She did not need to see to know who her visitor would be.

"May I come in?" Yoshimo asked politely from the door.

"Of course."

Yoshimo shut the door quietly and perched himself on the corner of her bed. The room was exceedingly cramped – there really was not any other place to sit unless one favoured the floor. To oblige him, Keto shifted so she sat upright and found herself studying the soft-spoken bounty hunter. He still wore his dark leathers as if he had only just returned from the night, his silky hair scooped back in a long ponytail at the nape of his neck. She had never in her life before encountered anyone quite like him. There was no mistaking his calm for weakness; just by watching him, one could tell that the man was dangerous and not to be crossed lightly. Yet, for all that, he was unfailingly courteous and understanding of everyone in his acquaintance. Keto smiled to herself. She had read many a tale of the 'gentleman thief', but never before believed such a man existed outside of song and fable.

"The priests have taken Rose to the local shrine. She will be well looked after."

"No objections? She was not precisely a devout woman, I suppose, given the manner by which she made her living."

Yoshimo shook his head. "I have not known the Crying God to turn a soul away, even in death. No matter our crimes, forgiveness need only be asked. And I know of no particular evil Rose Bouquet ever inflicted upon anyone that she should require a penance."

A warm smile touched Keto's mouth. "You are an Ilmateran? I had no idea."

Yoshimo ducked his head in the affirmative. "I pray when my time comes, He will accept my soul into his Grace, yes. In any case, it was not my faith that brought me here. I wanted to check that you were alright," he explained, linking his fingers together in his lap. Keto thought he had rather unusually delicate hands. Brown-skinned and long-fingered. Quick, probably ideal for picking locks or disarming trip wires. Her mind wandered and she idly wondered what other mischief those clever fingers had found.

"I am fine. Really," she added at his appraising look.

"I would not think less of you if you were to say otherwise, you know," he informed her. "Nor would the others. You are not as accustomed to seeing and dealing with death as we are; it takes a toll upon our souls. There is no shame in acknowledging it." Keto shrugged indifferently and Yoshimo shifted closer. "What are you trying to prove?" he asked softly.

Keto found herself struggling beneath his quiet scrutiny. Finally, she turned her head so she faced him directly. "She's the Hero of Baldur's Gate, isn't she?" she asked bluntly.

Surprise flickered across his face. "Who told you that?" he asked carefully.

"It matters not," she brushed off the question impatiently. "Nor am I the foolish child people are so quick to believe I am. I can put two and two together and make four. Just tell me, she is, isn't she?"

Yoshimo sighed deeply. "Isabel has never spoken to me of it. Neither has Jaheira."

"But you believe it?"

"I do. I do believe it. I know it." He inhaled sharply, as if something in those words caused him pain, but the moment passed so quickly, Keto was not entirely sure she had seen anything at all. Yoshimo tilted his head, studying her. "Is this why you have been so out of sorts?"

Keto sighed, flopping her head down against the pillows. "Oh Yoshimo, I hardly know. It is... everything, I suppose. These murders, those poor people. I always knew there was much suffering in the world, but knowing it and actually seeing it, smelling it, touching it..." she shuddered, despite herself. "And then there is everything with Isabel, and Jaheira and Angelo forever looking at me as though I were an over-eager toddler about to stick my hands into the kitchen fire... I don't know, I guess I thought it would feel different."

"What? More heroic?" Yoshimo teased gently.

"Less lonely." His face softened at the sadness that tinged the bard's words and he found himself reaching across the tiny space for her hand.

"We adventurers are a hard, untrusting, miserable lot, are we not?" There was understanding in his lilting voice. "I forget it sometimes. The only way we survive as long as we have in the Life is by putting up walls between us and the rest of the world. And after we are done there, we spend the rest of our time putting up walls within ourselves, hiding our vulnerabilities and insecurities so we might pretend that they do not exist. We do not like to look upon our scars, Keto, and like even less the idea of others seeing them."

"I suppose all of us are a little broken," she replied softly.

"Indeed we are. Believe me, Keto," his fingers caught her chin and gently lifted so that she would look him in the eye. "You could be the most experienced veteran on Faerun and the others would still struggle to let you in. I guarantee it, you would still feel this way, the only difference being you would not admit to it. It has naught to do with you and everything to do with us." He let her go. "Do you know why I recommended you to Isabel?" When Keto shook her head, he continued. "It is precisely because you are _not_ an adventurer."

"Oh gee, thanks mate!" Keto exclaimed. "Way to cheer a girl up!"

Yoshimo chuckled. "You misunderstand me. What I mean is you are not an adventurer in the way that the rest of us are. I do not mean you are naive, or not as capable – you are none of those things. But you are not scarred by this Life as we have been."

Keto was unconvinced. "See, there you go again. You speak as if I have not lived, as if I have not been through _anything_. Oh, I know you have all been through so much hardship and heartache and how _terrible_ it is that it has left you a bunch of stubborn, embittered stoics, and I cannot hope to understand what it is you've endured... but Gods, Yoshimo? Cannot you see how patronising that is?"

"I do not doubt you have been dealt your fair share of hard knocks in your life, Keto," he answered, dark eyes observing her shrewdly. "As you say, we are all a little bit broken. But I wonder if you have not shown more resilience with it than many of our fellows. You still permit yourself to feel for people like Rose Bouquet, to remember her as a human. You do not build walls around your heart. And that, my dear, is a thing to be treasured."

"And that is why you wanted me to have a place here? I do not understand."

"Isabel, Jaheira, Angelo, even myself... we all feel, Keto. But we pretend we are hard. We pretend so much so that eventually, we _become_ hard. You have seen what has happened between Isabel and Jaheira? All that hurt and bitterness between them? They struggle to resolve it because both have isolated themselves. You don't think each of them would rather it be different?"

"They don't know how. You think it is because they have forgotten." She hesitated. "But why me?"

"Because you will remind them. You remind us all, just by being who you are." He looked down at his hands, once more folded in his lap. "Isabel is a remarkable woman," he said softly. "But you, Keto? You might very well one day be extraordinary."

Keto watched Yoshimo staring at his hands in the flickering glow of the candlelight and could not help but smile. "The only thing that is extraordinary in this room," she said without taking her eyes off him, "is your capacity for kindness."

The thief met her look, his mouth quirking in a smile of his own. "I did not convince you at all, did I?"

Keto laughed softly and gave one of his hands an affectionate squeeze. "Not in the slightest," she replied warmly. "But it was an incredibly kind thing to say, nonetheless. Thank you, I do mean it. I am glad we are friends."

"Always." They sat in a companionable silence for some time. "Will you sleep?" he asked after a while. Keto rubbed her eyes, shaking her head.

"I fear I would find little comfort in it," she replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I keep seeing them behind my eyes, you know? It is strange... I laid face to face with Remy in that alley, but it is Rose who I keep remembering. Dancing a merry jig in the tavern, laughing at a joke. Living, I guess. And then, I see her sobbing in that room when we tried to talk to her about that night. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing more than that. Seems such an awful thing to die for it."

"It is a shame she did not reveal anything about the Skinner when you spoke. The doorman remembered no one consequential coming in and there are no names in the Madame's ledger, only sums paid."

"No, Isabel had that one straight before. She was barely coherent. Just kept babbling away, it didn't make much sense..." she frowned. "Solik berries."

"Hmm?" Yoshimo looked up to see Keto sitting ram-rod straight on the bed. Her eyes were narrowed as if she was trying to make out some tiny detail on the wall opposite.

"Solik berries," she repeated, turning the words over in her mouth. "Solik berries. Why would she mention solik berries when we were asking her about Remy?"

Yoshimo's grin was a little too knowing. "What, apart from the obvious reason?" he asked, his eyes dancing. Keto looked at him is askance and the thief coughed delicately. "Well, solik berries are often used in a salve for, ahem, intimate afflictions."

"Oh." Keto coloured a little at that. "I suppose, given her line of work... but why would she be thinking about, well – _that_ – when Isabel interviewed her?"

"I do not know, Keto. Perhaps the Skinner has another problem aside from his inclination to carve up paupers for sport?"

Keto cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. "This isn't funny, Yoshimo. I think..." Her voice trailed off and restlessly she pushed herself up off the narrow bed and grabbed her coat.

"As my father would say, those are dangerous words to hear from a woman." She scowled at him as he watched her pull on her boots. "Where are you going at this hour?"

"Come with me and you'll see."

xxx

Keto was pounding on the door so furiously her knuckles were aching. Her heart was beating so fast in her chest, she wondered it didn't rattle. Yoshimo hovered at her elbow, a mix of confusion and concern evident in his angular face, but Keto did not have time to dwell upon his decision to trust her instinct and follow her as she raced through the darkened streets. She pounded her fist again against the door and her heart leapt when she heard the rustle of movement within.

"Whoever that is, I swear upon Waukeen's good grace, I will bloody well –" she could hear Bel Dalemark's grumble as he fumbled about with the locks on his door. "Do you have any idea what hour it is – Keto?" The merchant's surprise was plain as day when he saw who his early hour visitor was. He frowned at the wide-eyed, dishevelled-looking bard, wrapped in her green coat and the black-garbed man behind her. "Lass, what is the meaning of this? Are you in trouble?"

Keto shook her head. "No, Bel, we're fine. I'm sorry to rouse you, and at your home and everything, but," she spoke quickly. "I need to ask you a question."

Bel folded his arms across his nightshirt, his eyes growing increasingly alert with each second. "Aye? Must be one hell of a question."

"What smells like solik berries?"

The merchant stared at her blankly. "Pardon?"

"I know it seems trivial, but Bel, you know me. You know I would not ask if it wasn't important," she pleaded, an edge of desperation creeping into her voice. "Please, Bel."

"Darlin' girl, you don't tell me that this _fellow_ –" he glared suspiciously at Yoshimo. The thief merely rolled his eyes, whilst Keto looked outraged.

"Oh Gods, _no_, Bel!" she snapped. "He's just a friend. Actually, he's more than a friend; he's part of that company I was telling you of earlier. Now please, we need you to help us out here. Please."

Bel's frown deepened. "What smells like solik berries, you say? Hells, this is a strange question to be asked before dawn." He scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Well, I'll take you at your word that you don't need to know about the, well, _regular_ use for such." This time it was Keto's turn to roll her eyes. "Apart from that, well, mumbleberries are similar."

"Perhaps he enjoys a bit of pie with his murder?" Yoshimo muttered under his breath.

"Eh? Nay, it's the off season anyhow. No mumbleberries until the spring, at least. Hmm, I suppose oak bark is not so different."

"What would oak bark be used for locally?" Keto pressed.

"Tannin, most likely." Keto and Yoshimo exchanged a glance. "Confound it, lass, will you not tell me what this is all about?" he demanded.

"The tanner...?" she asked breathlessly.

"Perhaps," Yoshimo pursed his lips uncertainly. "It would explain why she smelt –"

"Now look here!" Bel's bark interrupted them sharply. "What is this business about the tanner and solik berries and who smelt what and damn it Keto, _what is going on?_"

"I'm sorry Bel, but I just don't have time to explain right now," Keto said, hastily leaning in to kiss a very stunned Bel Dalemark on the cheek. "Thank you so much!" And with that, she and Yoshimo both were hurrying down the street, quickly being swallowed by the darkness.

"The tanner! Gods above, Rejiek Hidesman is the Skinner?" Her breath was coming out it small puffs, misting in the cold air and she wrapped her arms tighter about her body.

"Slow down, Keto, we do not know for sure," Yoshimo replied, matching her brisk pace. "You're basing this entire theory off an offhand comment Rose made about smelling berries."

"But it makes sense!" The bard insisted. "Come on, Yoshimo, who else actually skins creatures for a living? He started with animal hides, then moved on to human ones. Gods! And living here in the Bridge this whole time!"

"Keto –"

"Not to mention, his store has been closed for weeks now. Weeks! People would not have given it much thought, what with the restricted traffic through the Bridge, but I'll bet you my last copper he was shut down for business before Aegisfield put guards on the district gates."

"Keto –"

"_And_ he's always been a creepy son of a bitch, you know? Something about him just makes those tiny hairs on your neck stand up –"

"Keto!" Yoshimo grabbed her by the elbow, spinning her round to face him. "We _don't know_, and besides? A tanner who is also a mage? Even you can admit it is some leap."

A childish part of her felt like pouting, but she pushed the feeling away. Yoshimo had a point, she admitted. But she refused to let it go. Something about it just _clicked_.

"Maybe," she began slowly. "Maybe he isn't a mage."

Yoshimo frowned. "We know it was a wizard who killed Rose, Keto. Moreover, the nature of the killings fit with a –"

"– a necromancer, yes I know," Keto finished, her blue eyes impatient. "But what if we forget about Rose a moment. The bodies themselves do not necessarily point to a mage. Rose was the only victim that was murdered by magical means _and_ she was the only victim that did not fit with the Skinner's normal profile."

"Because she was a witness, not a target."

"Yes, but, think Yoshimo. We've all just assumed it had to be the Skinner, but what if it _wasn't_?"

The thief stared at her for a minute, trying to follow her train of thought. "No one else had motive to kill Rose. No one but the Skinner."

Keto chewed on her lip. "Maybe it was a hit," she suggested.

Yoshimo rolled his eyes with disbelief. "Now you are clutching as straws," he informed her. "Take it from the criminal amongst us, there is simply no way in which a contract could have been negotiated for Rose's murder within the time frame we are dealing with. A hired thug perhaps, but an assassin schooled in death magic? Not to mention the amount of gold it would take to buy a killer of that calibre. Besides, if it was a hit, why would you hire a mage in the first place? Why not the thug? It is all to the same end after all, and a customer who is a bit too heavy-handed with a prostitute would hardly attract the attention that a magical murder would."

She sighed unhappily. "It would explain the knife," she replied a little sullenly. "I agree with Isabel, that part was inconsistent with Angelo's explanation. I know a bit about magic and believe me, given the choice between coming at someone with a blade or whispering incantations, I would pick incantations every time."

"Maybe Angelo's theory does not explain away everything, but neither does yours," Yoshimo sighed. "But let's take it to our fair leader anyway." He shook his head reproachfully as she perked up at his concession. "At least it will be warm inside," he muttered.

xxx

"I can't believe you let her convince you," Angelo said reprovingly as he rested his back against the brick wall and watched Isabel peer out the broken window, a small silver spyglass poised at her eye. They were sitting on the second floor of an abandoned house in the Bridge which afforded a rather decent view of the local tannery. Isabel ignored him, just as she had ignored most of the running commentary he had generously provided on their current assignment, and tried to focus on the building across the street.

"It's been three hours, Isabel and it is broad bloody daylight. Even if he _is_ the Skinner, what are you expecting to learn by watching his front door?" He pressed, obviously exasperated with her.

"You know, your company isn't exactly all peaches either," she said irritably. "It's a good lead."

"No, it's our _only_ lead," Angelo corrected. "That doesn't make it a good one." He breathed in heavily and instantly regretted it. Until recently, the building had been home to a motley group of squatters. Isabel's coin might have moved them on, but it had done nothing to rid the place of its rather ripe smell. "What does a bard know about investigating a serial killer anyway?" he muttered under his breath.

"Leave off Keto, would you?" Isabel snapped. "Aegisfield was a Watch Inspector and the man still had the deductive reasoning skills of a pistachio nut. Occupation clearly has little to do with it." She tried again to focus through the spyglass, tapping it on the window sill with annoyance. "Oh for the love of – here." She tossed the tiny instrument to Angelo. "Your turn."

Angelo rolled his eyes and took her place at the window, angling the glass at the tannery. Isabel let her head rest against the wall and her eyes fluttered closed. She was tired. Her nerves were fraying, her body felt like it hadn't been allowed to see a bed in days – _oh wait_, she thought grumpily. A full minute passed and then she heard Angelo knocking the spyglass against the wall.

"Careful," she said without opening her eyes. "I paid twelve silver crowns for that."

"You were ripped off," Angelo replied, glaring resentfully at the thing. Sighing, he settled for watching without the aid of Gond's finest.

Isabel did not answer. She knew she had not won many favours with her group by siding with Keto. Even Yoshimo was reluctant to accept the girl's theory. But the idea that the Skinner was well, actually a skinner, was compelling. As Keto pointed out, he had the necessary training and instruments, which would fit with the precise nature of the mutilations. His shop had been closed for weeks. And, if there were two killers as Keto suggested, it would explain the knife in the alley. Isabel had argued at length with the others that it warranted further investigation at least. She had won her case in the end, though her comrades remained largely sceptical and none more so than the man beside her.

Opening one eye, Isabel snuck a quick peek at Angelo. He had managed to wedge himself against the window pane so he could observe the street below seated, balancing crossed wrists on his knees. Neither of them were wearing any armour; Angelo had dressed for comfort rather than protection, in a plain white shirt, creased trousers and the same battered brown leather coat he never seemed to be without. He made no effort to hide the boredom in his eyes.

Gods help her if the man didn't drive her to madness, she thought, closing her eyes again. She could still hear his words from that evening ringing in her ears, the memory eating through every other thought like acid. The bloody cheek! He was a traitor and a murderer and yet he would presume to tell _her_ how she ought to behave? _Hypocrite._ What a fool she had let herself be! She had let her guard down around the man, forgotten for barely half a minute just who she was dealing with and _bam_! She had been royally spanked for her mistake.

Isabel suppressed a sigh. But if she was brutally honest with herself, she knew it had not been his nerve in calling her bluff that had rocked her so. She resented being handled, but that small, treacherous voice in the back of her mind delighted in telling her that her behaviour had to an extent, made such handling necessary. She had not been much of a leader of late, and if it took someone like Angelo Dosan to make her realise it, well then, things were obviously a lot worse than she had let herself believe, weren't they?

She missed Jaheira. Her throat constricted painfully at the realisation. Jaheira should have been the one to pull her into line, to tell her to pull her socks up and behave like an adult. It shouldn't have had to fall to Angelo or Yoshimo to be the voices of reason in her life. How had the world turned so topsy-turvy on her that she could scarcely tell anymore which way was up?

"Oh ho ho! Now whatever are you up to, my friend?" Angelo murmured, his eyes lighting with interest for the first time that afternoon. Isabel glanced up at him.

"What's going on?" she asked. He motioned her over to the window and pointed.

"It's Rejiek," he said. "There, with the satchel over his shoulder. He looks like he's on his way back to the tannery." He turned toward her puzzled. "Did we even know he had left?"

Isabel bit her lip worriedly. "There must be another way out."

"Get down," Angelo whispered, suddenly pushing her toward the floor as he ducked beneath the window sill. They held their breath whilst the tanner sauntered down the street below, a few bars from a local sailor's ditty floating on the breeze.

"He's _humming_?" she whispered incredulously. Angelo touched his index finger to his lips and carefully, very carefully, raised his head over the sill to watch. He inhaled sharply, ducking back down.

"What? What is it?"

"The satchel. I think I saw it move."

Before he could protest, Isabel lurched to her feet to look. Her pulse was starting to race as she scanned the street. "I can't see him."

"He must have gone inside already. Shit." He ran a hand through his hair. Isabel twisted her bottom lip with worry.

"It might have been nothing," she said, though the staccato jitter of her heart spoke otherwise. "Might just have been the wind."

"It wasn't the wind." Angelo swallowed and looked her dead in the eye. "Isabel, that satchel was large enough to carry a child. All this time, we've assumed he slipped up with Remy, picking a target that would not be so easily dismissed as his previous victims. What if it wasn't a slip? What if he's just been –"

"– Escalating," Isabel finished, her horrified expression mirroring his own. Could the Skinner truly be that ballsy, she wondered? To take a child in broad daylight? Images of his victims left out in the streets and in fishing nets, just waiting for the Watch to find them flashed behind her eyes. He had taunted them, delighted and marvelled in his own audacity. _Oh yes_, she thought terribly. He was definitely that cocky.

"Okay, okay, okay," she muttered breathlessly as she tried to work out the next series of steps she had to take. "We're going in."

Angelo nodded, reaching for his blade then stopped suddenly. "Wait, what about Aegisfield? We promised him he would be there to make the arrest."

Isabel hesitated a second before shaking her head. "No. If there is a child's life at stake, that has to take priority. We can't wait for the Inspector, but you should go and fetch him anyway. Make him move quickly, I don't know how much time I will have once I am in there."

Angelo grabbed her by the arm. "Like hell," he snapped furiously. "You think I would let you go alone into that house? We have no idea what's in there."

Isabel opened her mouth to argue, then shook her head at the resolve in his face. "Screw it," she said and the pair bolted together toward the tannery.

xxx

"Open up!" Isabel called from the street, punctuating the words by rapping the hilt of her dagger against the tannery door. She glanced desperately at Angelo when there was no answer.

"It's the City Watch!" he bellowed. "We need to... um, conduct interviews in the area."

"Eh?"answered a muffled voice from the other side of the door. "What about?"

"Don't say it's about the Skinner," Isabel whispered.

"Right," Angelo whispered back. He called out the first thing that came to his head. "Rats!"

"_Rats?"_ Isabel mouthed incredulously. Angelo glared at her darkly.

"Rats?" the voice responded.

"Aye, there's a nasty rat infestation across the street," Angelo improvised, rolling his eyes at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. "If we don't at least speak to the neighbours about it, the Inspector will have our heads. We'll make this quick, I promise you."

There was a shuffling and the faint click of the door being unlocked. The door opened no more than a crack, revealing a very disgruntled looking middle-aged man.

"Alright watchman, say your piece –" he stopped abruptly. "Wait. Where are your uniforms?"

Isabel didn't let him finish the thought. Swiftly, she shouldered the door open and knocked the irate man out with the butt of blade. He collapsed on the floor in a dead heap. She turned and stared at Angelo derisively. "Rats?"

Angelo glanced down at the man she had felled. "I admit, I think I prefer your method better."

Isabel's lips twitched. "And here I thought you and I would never agree."

"This is the beginning of something beautiful, I'm sure, but for now, where is our boy? The fellow on the ground definitely is not Rejiek," he said with a frown.

Isabel looked around the darkened, deserted room. There were no candles burning, the windows were all curtained. _Not up here_, she thought and her eyes fell upon the upturned corner of a rug.

"There." She hurried toward it, lifting it up to reveal a trap door hidden beneath. Angelo raised an eyebrow and heaved the door open.

"Down we go," he muttered to himself.

There was nothing in the world that could have prepared either of them for the room beneath the tannery. Isabel's stomach lurched as the overpowering metallic stench of blood literally smacked her in the face. Death, both fresh and old, assaulted her senses as she took in what was clearly the personal playground of a madman.

Blood spattered across the walls, the floors, the ceiling. She noticed the racks, large, man-sized blocks of blood-soaked wood with iron manacles attached and beads of sweat formed down her back.

"Oh Gods," Angelo breathed, utterly horrified. The blood had drained from his face.

"I doubt any god has been here in quite some time," Isabel swallowed, fighting the wave of nausea. "It doesn't look like he's in here. Do you think there could be another level?"

Angelo had to shake himself out of a sort of dazed horror. He scanned the room quickly and nodded to the far corner. "Stairs."

xxx

"Rejiek, you fool!" The wizard hissed as he watched the tanner struggle with the thick knots of the rope that tied the small barge to the dock. Behind Rejiek Hidesman, a small boy rocked on his heels, sobbing for his mother. "Why could you not stick to our plan? What were you _thinking_ taking a child in the middle of the day?"

"Vellin, you always were prone to hysteria. Stop worrying so much," Rejiek replied, still focusing on untying the barge.

The wizard called Vellin glanced frantically at the stairs leading up to Rejiek's workroom. Thank the Gods they had possessed the good sense to acquire this tiny dock beneath the Bridge! Rejiek's first kill, the fisherman who had originally owned the deed, had served them well in more ways than one. Still, he thought glaring at his partner, if the damned tanner could not get the knot undone in time it would all be naught.

"Do not tell me I am over-reacting! Those are no ordinary, bumbling watchmen up there! They _know_!"

Rejiek straightened, looking the mage dead in the eye. "Good. That is as it should be. My work is finally receiving the attention it deserves."

Vellin gasped. "You arrogant _idiot_! They would see you swinging from the gallows! Tell me, how will you finish your Gods-blessed work _then_?"

"I tire of these games. You have long been jealous of my genius, but –"

Rejiek stopped abruptly mid-sentence at the sound of footsteps racing above. Vellin swore and began muttering an incantation under his breath. He felt his palms heat as the power slowly began to build, raising his head only as Isabel and Angelo crashed down the stairs. He smiled grimly to himself. _Rejiek, you might be the genius. But _I_ am the one who will save us._

xxx

"_You_?" Isabel exclaimed as her eyes fell upon the man standing beside the tanner. "I thought I knocked you out upstairs?"

Rejiek spared a glance for his partner, a cruel smile on his thin-lipped mouth. "You hit Vellin? I cannot say I blame you. He can be so difficult sometimes."

"Oh, perhaps you wouldn't mind terribly then if I finish what I started?" she replied sweetly. Her mind was racing as she tried to take in as much of the scene as she could. Shipping crates stacked as high as the ceiling surrounded them. They were standing on a dock, she realised anxiously. _He's planning on escaping down the river._ Her eyes fixed on the little boy, whimpering behind Rejiek's legs. Her heart hammered against her chest.

The Skinner's smile broadened. "Nay, Vellin may be difficult, but he has his uses. Unlike you, who have outlived yours." He grabbed a loaded crossbow from behind a nearby crate and aimed it at her.

Isabel dove behind a nearby crate, pulling Angelo along with her. The bolt whistled above their heads, burying itself in the wall. Angelo leaned out briefly from behind, and cursed. Rejiek had already loaded another bolt and was advancing toward them.

"He's coming," he told her. "And that damned wizard looks like he's about to work some serious magic soon."

Isabel nodded and drew her dagger. "See if you can't distract him in a minute. Right now, I need you to tell me when Rejiek gets to fifteen feet."

Angelo knew better than to question an order in the field, even if he wondered at the feral gleam in her dark eyes. Carefully, he checked again. "Twenty-five," he murmured. "Twenty, fifteen –"

Isabel charged. Whipping around the corner she all but barrelled into the shocked murderer, knocking the crossbow from his hands and sending it skidding across the floor. A quick half-turn at the last second saved Rejiek from her knife, but she still tumbled them both to the ground.

Gods, the man was _strong_! It was all Isabel could think as he grabbed at her legs before she had the opportunity to roll to her feet. Made sense, she supposed, her right leg lashing out to kick him in the ribs. Had to be pretty strong to carry a struggling kid across the district without breaking a sweat. She managed to get to her feet, just in time for Rejiek to smash her squarely across the jaw. Isabel staggered backwards, but another bolt whistling in their direction distracted him momentarily, affording her enough time to recover and land a punch of her own.

"You're welcome!" Angelo shouted at her. He had somehow managed to find a handful of bolts and ducked behind the crates to reload Rejiek's abandoned crossbow. Isabel smiled grimly as she readied her blade and settled into a brawler's crouch before Rejiek came at her again. Her gaze flickered momentarily to the wizard. His palms were glowing with golden light and getting brighter by the second in a manner that Isabel _very_ much did not appreciate.

"Get the damn wizard, Angelo!" she ordered, just managing to block one of the Skinner's heavy-handed swings. _Duck next time_, she thought as her arm screamed in protest. _Ducking is much better than blocking._ She could still hear the low hum of the mage's intoning and suddenly a cry split the air. Out of the corner of her eye, Isabel saw a bright arc of light hit Angelo in the chest, sending him flying backwards. Her heart leapt into her throat as he landed hard against the crates. Just as suddenly, another blow to the jaw sent her reeling. Isabel saw stars as the ground rushed up to meet her. _This is bad_, she thought dimly. _Really, really bad._ She could see Angelo lying just a few feet away, his crossbow between them. She had lost her knife somewhere in the battle, but if she could just reach his weapon... Isabel clawed her way toward it, her bloodied fingers wrapping around the trigger and bringing it up to aim at the Skinner...

Her blood went cold. Rejiek stood on the dock, one hand fisted in the little boy's hair, the other holding her very own blade to his exposed neck.

"Careful now," Rejiek warned. She had broken his nose and blood dripped from a nasty blow she had managed to land on his brow, but he was still standing which was a hell of a lot more than could be said for her right now. Her finger tightened on the hair trigger, but she didn't dare breathe. Rejiek smile sent chills down her spine.

"I wouldn't do that. See, you know what one of the fascinating things about my line or work is? You learn all sorts of useful information about human anatomy." He drew a razor thin red line across the boy's neck. He whimpered, apparently too terrified to cry. "Something like that probably won't kill a person. Not right away anyhow. But if I were to do this," he jerked the boy's head forward and angled the tip at the side of his neck, "cut in from here and rip forward, your blade will sever his jugular and wind pipe instantly. Quite fatal."

"I am going to kill you, you insane son of bitch," Isabel said in a shaking voice.

Rejiek merely shook his head. "I do not expect you to understand the importance of my work." He glanced over at the wizard impatiently. "Vellin, do hurry it along, would you?

It was all she needed. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Isabel somehow managed to lurch to her feet, stumbling toward the dock. Rejiek hissed when he noticed and shoved the child violently toward her. She cried out in pain as she caught the boy in her arms, knocking the crossbow from her hand. Rejiek leapt onto the barge, hacking at the rope with her knife just as Vellin straightened. His hands were too bright too look at directly, but the brilliant light could not hide the cruelty in his face. There was a sound – or rather, it was a complete lack of sound, followed by a release of energy that made her ears pop. A flash of light blinded her and instinctively Isabel curled around the boy as the crates behind them began to fall.


	10. Acceptances

**9 – Acceptances**

_Angelo was running. His drew in ragged breath after ragged breath, his blood pounding in his ears as he hurtled through the twisting streets and laneways to which there never seemed an end. Somewhere behind, shadows pursued him relentlessly through the miserable grey labyrinth of the city... if he could only just put enough distance between them... Gods help him, would they ever tire of chasing him?_

"_Gods cannot help you, Angelo."_

_He spun around, eyes widening. "Tamoko?"_

_She smiled that pretty smile of hers, so full of secrets. The howling wind ruffled the crow black hair that framed her face. Her dark eyes were amused._

"_Ah Angelo, my dearest Angelo," she said, reaching out her hand to touch his face. Stunned, her fingertips like feathers brushed along his brow, traced the line of his jaw. She was standing so close he could smell the heavy jasmine perfume she favoured, the scent muddling his head. She was standing so close... he had but to reach out, though his hands remained stuck fast to his sides. "Ever the coward, weren't you?"_

"_I can't," he swallowed, his throat so tight it was a struggle to force the words out. "They're coming for me, I have to go. I have to keep running. I have to."_

_Suddenly her hands were gripping his face, her fingernails biting into his flesh. "Fool!" she hissed, her beautiful face now scarcely an inch away, contorted with anger. "How long do you think you can keep this up, hmm? How long, Angelo? Tell me!"_

_He staggered back, his heart hammering so hard he wondered it did not break. Perhaps it already had, who really knew anyway? Terrified, he turned away from the shade of the woman he had loved and ran blindly, her voice calling out after him, jeering._

"_Wake up, Angelo! You can't keep running away from this! When are you going to wake up?"_

His eyes opened as if Tamoko's words had chased him out of his dream and for a brief, fleeting moment he could have laughed at the twisted irony of it. He sucked in a great breath, relieved at once to know he still could and then regretted just as soon after, as the air choked with dust and soot filled his lungs. Coughing, he struggled to rise, blinking away the stars that swam across his vision. His head hurt, his chest ached and his throat cried out desperately for water – but it could have been much worse, he thought as he found his feet and regarded the dock beneath the tannery properly. He inhaled sharply at what he saw.

The quay was in ruins. The wizard's explosion had ripped like a shockwave through the shipping crates, buckling the support beams. The dock itself had half sunk into the muddy waters of the river. Collapsed struts and broken crates were scattered everywhere and the entire quay felt dangerously unstable, the timbers groaning underfoot.

And Isabel was nowhere to be seen.

A chill shivered through him and Angelo spun around, breath hitching in his chest as his eyes darted about the dock, searching for a trace of the girl amidst the destruction.

"Isabel?" His voice sounded hoarse in his ears. "Isabel? Damn it, where are you?" He staggered through the wreckage, trying to quell the creeping tide of panic he felt. What had happened? The last thing he could remember was lining up his shot, just before an arc of searing light had hit him squarely in the chest. The wizard's bolt had thrown him backwards several yards... he had watched the tanner land a brutal blow to Isabel's jaw... and then nothing. Blackness had claimed him. Where the hell was she?

He tripped over a fallen beam and cursed as he landed hard on the ground, his reflexes still frustratingly too slow to break the fall and his eyes fell upon his crossbow, peeking out from beneath a shattered crate. He frowned as he rose to his feet and looked back at where he had come to. The distance between them made no sense; he had been holding the weapon hadn't he? _Unless..._ His gaze travelled the much lesser distance from the crossbow to the pile of collapsed shipping crates barely a foot away and his blood went cold.

"No, no, no, no." Panicking in earnest now, he fell to his knees and began shifting through the splintered wood. He ignored the sharp pains that lanced like red-hot needles through his chest, focusing only on clearing the rubble as quickly as possible. The sense of dread threatened to overwhelm him when he saw the limp, bloodied and all too familiar hand in amidst the wreckage.

"Eight million gods and goddesses," Angelo whispered, the prayer to his old gods unbidden on his lips. There she lay unmoving with the small boy the tanner had kidnapped, her body curled around his as if she had protected him with the only shield she had had at her disposal – herself. The child's eyes snapped open, wide and terrified when they saw him.

"Hey lad," he struggled to keep his voice calm as he lifted the last of the wreckage off the pair. "Are you alright?"

The boy squeezed his eyes shut, wrapping his arms around Isabel's unconscious body even tighter than before. Angelo gently pried his fingers open, and scooped the child up into his arms. He began to sob into his shoulder, awful sounds that wracked his skinny body. Not knowing quite what to do or say, Angelo murmured softly into his ear, hoping the sound of his voice rather than the words would soothe him.

"Hey now," he told him gently. "It's alright now. You're alright now." Setting the boy down, he crouched so they were eye level. The boy's face was streaked with dirt and tears, a thin line of dried blood across his neck where a blade had been drawn. The cut appeared relatively superficial however, and Angelo suspected the boy's crying had more to do with the emotional trauma rather than the physical. He felt a pang of sympathy for him. The boy could not have been more than ten years old.

"What's your name, lad?"

The boy sniffed. "T-tansy. Tansy Tamlen."

"Tansy. That's a good name." It was actually a ridiculous name, but he felt that was probably not the wisest thing to say at this juncture. "Now, tell me Tansy, are you hurt?"

Tansy touched his neck briefly.

"Aye, you've a nasty scratch there alright, but not to worry. Girls fancy a lad with a scar or two, you'll see. Anywhere else hurt?" He shook his head vehemently and Angelo nodded with relief. One less thing to worry about. "Alright, that's good. Now, I'm just going to check on my friend, okay?"

Tansy's voice was very small. "She's not dead, is she?"

Angelo knelt beside her and gently cradled Isabel's head as he checked for a pulse. "Nay lad, she's not dead." _Not dead, but not far from it_, he thought worriedly. She had been badly beaten. Auburn hair framed a face that was too white beneath the blood and bruises. He thought she might have a few broken ribs and her right arm was bent on an ugly angle that most certainly was not natural. She breathed, but it seemed a frail, shallow thing.

"Is she going to be alright?" Tansy asked behind him.

"She's going to be just fine," he reassured him, trying to salvage some comfort for himself from the words. He took one of her bloodied hands in his, squeezing it tight. Her fingers were like ice. "Come on, Isabel," he muttered. "Wake up. You're Isabel Wren, for the Gods' sakes! You defeated Sarevok, you're not going to be taken down by some sick, wretched man like this. Not like this. Wake up, damn it!" He could hear the edge of desperation creeping into his voice and he began to shake her insistently. "I said, wake _up!_"

She stirred slightly and his heart leapt into his throat. A low groan escaped her swollen lips and her eyes opened just a crack. She would never forget that moment, awaking to see that hardened, world-wearied face, streaked with blood and soot and lit by unguarded relief in those warm, whiskey eyes. Were it not for the crippling pain in her jaw, her ribs, her arm... and well, everywhere else, she thought hazily it was not an entirely unpleasant face to wake up to.

"Isabel?"

"Ow," she managed, her voice raspy. She struggled to sit up but it hurt too much. Isabel knew she had been beaten far worse before, but at this precise moment she could not recall any such time or event. Angelo gently helped her sit, leaning her against one of the more intact struts. Lightly, he brushed a few strands of hair away from her face.

"Gave me a bit of a scare there, chief," he said gruffly.

"Sorry about that," Isabel replied without much feeling. Her voice sounded distant, as if she was speaking from across a great sea. "He got away, didn't he?"

Angelo cast another glance in the direction of the empty, half-sunken pier and sighed again. He suddenly felt very, very tired. "I'm sorry, Isabel."

Isabel closed her eyes and nodded, resigned. "It wasn't your fault," she murmured. Her eyes fluttered open again. "The kid?"

"Right here," Angelo gestured toward Tansy. The boy stepped forward a little unsteadily, his wide eyes glued to Isabel. "Isabel, this is Tansy. Tansy, this lady here is Isabel Wren."

Isabel managed a smile, though it hurt her bruised face terribly. "Hello Tansy." She glanced back up at Angelo. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he lied easily. "But I am keen to be away from this place. I fear after that explosion, the foundations of this building are not too stable. Do you think you can walk?"

Isabel wanted to say yes, but her pride only went so far. "Honestly, I think I could use some help," she replied meekly. Without another word, Angelo lifted her good arm over his shoulder and supported her as she found her feet. She leaned heavily against him, so close she could feel the steady beat of the heart she had sometimes wondered even existed.

"Come on, chief," he murmured in her ear. "Let's get out of here."

xxx

Jaheira descended the stairs down into the Five Flagons common room with the most ferocious headache. She was weary, shoulders slumped and muscles aching. A healing would always take it out of her – drawing upon the natural energies of the world, shaping and channelling them to perform her will was no mean feat. It was often an exacting, exhausting task at the best of times – and she had pushed herself further than she ought today. But Isabel would do better for it, she thought with grim satisfaction. Injuries that should have taken weeks to mend, Jaheira had ensured would only take a matter of days.

She was that good.

And if the physical cost of the afternoon's work was a head-splitting headache, well, it would be worth it to see Isabel on her feet again. She could still see her when she closed her eyes, bruised and beaten in Angelo Dosan's arms as he all but carried her over the threshold of the inn. For one awful, time-stopping moment she had thought her charge was dead.

But she was not, and that was the thing to remember. Jaheira pushed the memory – and the guilt that accompanied it like an old friend – away determinedly. In a few days no one who set eyes upon Isabel would even know and perhaps then, Jaheira thought, she might be able to find it within her to forgive herself.

As she came down the stairs and into full view of the common room, heads turned expectantly like flowers to the sun. Keto, perched on her usual stool at the bar and Samuel Thunderburp behind it, both looked at her in askance at the sound of her footsteps. But it was Angelo who locked eyes with her first. He sat against the far wall, separate from the others and she wondered if his exclusion was self-imposed. His face was gaunt and bespoke of a bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that comes not merely from physical labour but from seeing things ordinary people shouldn't.

Jaheira did not like what she saw in his eyes. His face always struck her like a carefully crafted mask, but she knew there was a wary intelligence that flickered behind it and put her on her guard. Dosan played the henchman well. If someone had asked her last summer in Baldur's Gate about him, she would have described him as amounting to no more than a dog. Just another unquestioning hound, at Anchev's heel. She realised now just how dangerous that easy estimation had been – Dosan was far cleverer than he was willing to let others believe. He had a game, she knew he had, but for the life of her she could not guess at its nature. He was playing Isabel, playing them all like cheap sitars and she knew Isabel would let him for as long as it took to get Imoen back.

And what had she done but facilitate it? By pulling away from the girl, by withdrawing her company and her counsel she had allowed him to ingratiate himself into their group. If Isabel was blinded by the need to rescue her foster-sister, Jaheira had been just as blinded by her anger and grief. The gods themselves could not have bequeathed Dosan a better accomplice than her!

"How is she?" Keto asked, eyes bright with concern. Jaheira summoned a weary smile and inclined her head in a short nod.

"Isabel will be fine." Out of the corner of her eyes she watched Angelo. He let his eyes close – the only outward sign of relief – as if for a moment an invisible weight had been lifted and was no longer pressing upon his chest.

"Aye, ye see lass? Told you everything would work out," Samuel smiled kindly at the bard. A teapot rested upon the bar and the halfling innkeeper poured a third steaming cup. He pushed the slightly chipped china toward Jaheira as she sank onto the stool beside Keto. "Here, love. Ye look as though you could use sommat stronger, but our tippling storyteller here said a good pot of tea would do ye just as well."

Jaheira sipped on the hot liquid gratefully. "No, this is perfect. I am obliged to you, Samuel."

"So, Isabel really will be alright?" Keto confirmed. "She looked like she had crawled out of Hell when Angelo first brought her in." She glanced at Angelo for a moment. "You both did."

"Her injuries appeared worse than they actually were. She took a brutal beating, but thankfully there was no serious internal damage. With the healing, her ribs will mend completely within the next two or three days. Her arm took the worst of it – it looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to the bone."

"Not far from it," Angelo muttered.

"Has Yoshimo not returned yet?" she asked, looking around the room for the thief. There was no sign of the little boy who had clung so tightly to Angelo's coattails earlier. Hopefully, he was safe and sound in his mother's arms by now. If the woman was smart, Jaheira thought, her mind briefly returning to the sleeping girl one storey above, she would never let that boy go again.

Keto shook her head.

"Not yet. I think he might have accompanied the Inspector to the tannery – and oh! Speak of the devil!"

The thief swept into the room, his face a mirror for the weariness in her own. He nodded at them in turn as he pulled off his gloves and slapped them down on the counter.

"It is done. Warrants are now out for the arrest of one Rejiek Hidesman and one Vellin Dahn."

"Dahn?" Angelo's head snapped up. "How did you discover his last name?"

Yoshimo's face bore no trace of its usual humour. "When Aegisfield found out about the mage, he sent for a representative from the Cowled Wizards and demanded answers."

"The Wizards denied any knowledge of the murders," Jaheira said, her temper stirring.

"They have now _amended_ that statement," Yoshimo replied thinly. "It now appears there _was_ a wizard by the name of Dahn arrived in Athkatla some months ago – a wizard who paid a premium price for his license to practice in his specialty school of necromancy. They _apparently_ "lost track" of him after his arrival, but they only judged him to pose a "low to moderate" threat to the community."

"A low to moderate threat?" Jaheira repeated in a deadly soft voice. The callous indifference of the organization who had self-appointed itself as the guardians of the city was appalling.

"I have to give full credit to Aegisfield here," Yoshimo said with a sigh. "He was furious. He slammed their representative into a wall when he toted out that line."

"I knew he had to have a redeeming feature hidden somewhere," Keto remarked with a satisfied smirk, but Yoshimo shook his head.

"I would not be touting the Inspector's virtues just yet. He is livid with us as well."

"What? Why_?_"

"He thinks we should have waited," Angelo said tightly. He looked Yoshimo dead in the eye. "Am I right?"

Yoshimo's face was sympathetic. "I am sorry, my friend. I do not doubt both you and Isabel did what you felt was right, but he is holding you both accountable for Rejiek and Dahn's escape."

"And I suppose the fact that they saved a defenceless child was meaningless to him, was it?" Keto retorted indignantly.

"I am sure that will be of comfort to the next victim he skins, Keto," Angelo snapped. He ignored the looks of surprise that met his rebuke and drank deeply from the brandy he nursed in his hands. The drink mingled unpleasantly with the simmering anger in his gut.

"Aegisfield is likely only concerned with his reputation and career," Keto replied in a tart voice. "If he gave a damn about the Bridge, this would have been resolved weeks ago."

"That point of view is as naive as it is reductive." Angelo made no effort to conceal his derision. "That he cares about the damage to his career prospects does not follow that he can't also care about his district. He fell for a red herring. That makes him incompetent, not indifferent. Oh, and in case you've forgotten, _we_ were the ones who convinced him that the damage to his position would be irreversible if the killers were not caught. You were more than happy to exploit his self-interest when it served our own."

Keto stared, taken aback by the unexpected censure. She brushed her copper locks back from her face, her lips drawn tight across her face.

"This argument serves no one, I think," Yoshimo said after a moment's pause. "And I find myself remiss; I never asked after Isabel?"

Jaheira smiled inwardly. She had to grant it to Yoshimo, he was ever the peacemaker, ever quick with a tactful deflection or subtle distraction. Khalid had had a similar gift for calming hot tempers. Often her own, she remembered sadly.

"She will be soon enough on her feet again."

The thief smiled with relief. "That is good news."

"Bloody fantastic," Angelo muttered under his breath. He threw back the last drops of his brandy and from a bottle Jaheira had not noticed was beside him, generously refilled the glass. She turned back to Samuel. The halfling was quick with a smile.

"For whatever it be worth, ye folk did a good thing today," he said quietly. "That the Skinner is not in a cell awaiting the noose, well that be an awful shame. But if Tansy Tamlen was being buried in the Grave District, it would be a tragedy. I cannae blame you for your choice, and I wager not many others here will either."

"Thank you, Samuel," Jaheira replied. Samuel waved off her thanks.

"I be thanking _you_, naught the other way round," he said firmly. "I'm glad your girl is safe. Ye tell her when she awakes, you've all free room and board here for as long as you may please."

"Sam!" Keto exclaimed.

"Toss out a few troublemakers now and then, and we will call it even. But methinks when news of ye folk spreads, I shan't be gettin' too many."

A rare, sly grin tugged at Jaheira's mouth. "Not two weeks ago you had a crossbow pointed at my chest, threatening to toss us all out on our hides."

Samuel returned her grin with a wink of his own. "Just goes to show, eh? People are never what they seem." His gaze drifted over her shoulder and the easy smile faded. "It's not my place, but ye might want to have a word with ye man," he said in a voice meant only for her. Jaheira frowned and glanced back at a sullen Angelo. Her jaw stiffened at the idea of speaking to him of her own volition. But, she reminded herself grudgingly, perhaps it was time for a change in strategy.

_Pride be damned_, and she steeled herself and crossed the common room. The sudden appearance of her standing before him, arms folded and uncompromising seemed to momentarily shake him from his rigid, stone-faced temper.

"Follow me." She did not wait for a reply and he followed her wordlessly into the empty kitchens. Businesslike, she set a pail of water to heat and cleared the low wooden bench. "Sit," she ordered.

Angelo still nursed his glass, swirling the aged brandy. The colour was a near perfect match for his eyes. Eyes that were watching her with suspicion.

"Why?"

Like lightning, her left hand snaked out to jab him in the rib. Angelo gasped and doubled over, his face greying with the sudden pain. It was small of her, she could admit it, but part of her enjoyed his discomfit immensely.

"You have a cracked rib. It needs to be seen to," she informed him in the same matter-of-fact tone she might have used to describe the weather. Angelo could not have looked more surprised than if she had suddenly declared her intention to jump him on the kitchen table right then and there.

"Please, don't trouble yourself," he said hastily. "I'll go to the temple, have another healer look at it there."

Jaheira rolled her eyes. "Do not be ridiculous."

"I'm not! I'm just –" his voice trailed off uncomfortably.

"Dosan, if I ever do decide to end your miserable life once and for all, I assure you I would never do so under the guise of a healer."

He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Are you always so sentimental?"

Jaheira clucked her tongue. "You have a smart mouth, Dosan. It is no wonder Isabel likes you. Unbutton your shirt."

Angelo's answering smile was sardonic, and he drained his glass and complied. Jaheira's face was impassive as her cool fingers delicately examined the bruising to his tattooed torso. She let her eyes half-close as once again that day she opened herself up to that coursing current of the world's own magic, letting it fill and flow through her fingertips. She heard Angelo's sharp intake of breath as she concentrated on knitting together broken bone and muscle. It felt like the cool, clear waters of the river, the wind in the forest leaves. Whatever the physical toll, there was an undeniable peace to be found when she did this. A sense of rightness and completeness.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "I know how you feel about me."

Jaheira regarded him, her elegant grey-green eyes hard. "Do you?" She sighed, rocking back on her heels as she watched him. The powers she had called upon were leaving her now, and with it the peace and clarity she now found so difficult to come by on her own. "I do not trust you." Her tone was blunt. "Likely, I never will. But Isabel has made it clear that for the moment, you are here to stay, and I will respect her decision however misguided. You belong to this company now. Which means that if you sustain an injury, you do not hide it or pretend it does not trouble you. You come to me first."

Angelo nodded slowly. "That's fair.

"It is, and it is much more than you deserve. Know this Dosan; the very moment you step out of line, I will be there waiting. There will be no place on this earth that you can hide and I shall not find you. And believe me when I say that you will beg for the sweet release of death before I am done with you."

If she was not mistaken, the barest hint of a smile touched his lips. "Isabel is fortunate to know such loyalty." Jaheira shrugged and turned to retrieve the water from the stove, using it to dampen a cloth and handed it to him. Angelo accepted it, watching her carefully all the while. He felt at odds with himself, unsure of whether he should say anything to her. _Ah screw it,_ he thought. _I owe her that much_. "She misses you."

The druid stiffened and her eyes flashed to his. Angelo closed his eyes and waited for the scathing rebuke to mind his own affairs, but it never came. When he opened his eyes Jaheira was gone.

xxx

Not for the first time in her life, Isabel wished she knew even an ounce worth of her foster sister's uncanny knack for sneaking and skulduggery. _What I would not give for a whispered spell of invisibility right about now_, she thought, doing her best to cling to the shadows as she slipped from her room and made her way down toward the tavern. She held her breath as she tiptoed across the floorboards, as if just around every darkened corner waited a stern Jaheira and a strict order back to bed.

_Well, screw that,_ Isabel thought rebelliously. She was going to get some fresh air and anyone who told her otherwise could be damned!

But discretion yet remained the better part of valour, so it was probably still best to be as circumspect as possible.

The kitchens were her best bet for an easy escape, but she would have to duck past the common room to get there. The muffled roar as she approached told her the tavern floor was in full, lively form and she crossed her fingers as she darted past, hoping against hope that everyone was just too busy making merry to notice one lone girl skulking in the shadows. A silver crown bought the silence of the scullery lad in the kitchens and before she knew it, Isabel was outside and sucking in the crisp, night air like a woman who had nearly drowned. Her eyes fluttered closed with pleasure as the autumn chill ghosted over her bruised, tender skin like a lover's caress.

"I see someone is up who shouldn't be."

The darkness hid her grin. "Hello Angelo."

Angelo pushed off the far wall of the inn, the orange-cherry glow of his pipe lighting his features briefly as he inhaled. His eyes raked up and down her body, revealing nothing.

"I thought Jaheira had confined you to bed rest."

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

"And how do you suppose you will buy my silence?"

Isabel's lips quirked. "The usual way. Remind you that as I already have reasons abounding to kill you it might be smart not to invite my ire."

Angelo snorted softly. "You haven't taken a good look at yourself lately then," he informed her with a heavy sigh and sat down on a low wall nearby. "I'm fairly certain I could take you."

Isabel grimaced. Did she really look that bad? Rejiek had given her a hell of a beating – both her splinted arm and chest throbbed mercilessly, her face felt little better – but Hells! She was on her feet less than a day after all! Her mind drifted back. Jaheira had forced something down her throat that had her out cold in minutes when Angelo had brought her back to the inn. She had not felt so flash then. She swallowed, recalling the hazy red pain. _Jaheira must have worked herself to the bone_, she thought a little guiltily.

"How are you feeling?" she asked instead, taking a seat beside him. Angelo shrugged indifferently.

"Jaheira fixed me up good and proper. Good as, well, good as whatever I was before, I suppose."

"She did?" Isabel said with surprise. _That _was unexpected.

"Aye. You have a good one there, chief. Don't let her go."

She nodded silently and stared out over the inky waters of the nameless river that wound its way like a serpent though Athkatla. Angelo was withdrawn, and whilst not unusual for him, he did seem more grim than usual. As her old swords master would have put it, he had a porcupine stuffed up his jacksie.

She decided to probe. "So fill me in. What happened after we got back here?"

Angelo's expression was unreadable. "The explosion Dahn created – sorry, that was the wizard with Rejiek – sent a quake through the entire Bridge, so just about everyone knows. Aegisfield is livid with us. We've received less than a third of our commission."

"Unfortunate, but not really unexpected. The kid?"

"The kid's fine, given the circumstances. You're not bothered by this?"

Isabel's expression was startled. "Why would I be?" Her eyes narrowed. "Are you?"

Angelo stared resolutely ahead, eyes hard. "Seems to me the day was... less than a success."

She lifted her shoulders in an indifferent shrug. "We saved the boy, Angelo. So Aegisfield didn't get a high profile arrest to hang his laurels on and we didn't get our money. Big deal." She paused a moment. "Is that what you're in a knot over? The money?"

Angelo's head snapped about to face her and Isabel thought she saw something close to anger glitter in his golden eyes. "I'll say this for likely the first time in my career – I don't give a damn about the money. We were reckless today, Isabel."

"Reckless?" Isabel exclaimed, a hint of shrillness creeping into her voice. "What we did was _necessary_! He had a child. What would you have had us done instead? In fact, unless that blow to the head did more damage than I thought, I remember you _agreeing_ with me!"

"Aye, I know it. We went into that house blind, and I pushed you to do it."

Isabel snorted. "Gods, Angelo. I hardly needed the encouragement."

"Maybe that's the problem."

"What do you want from me? I made a call – and the right one at that. I stand by it, and I am sure as hell not losing any sleep over the fact that a little boy is asleep in his bed right now instead of stretched out on that sick bastard's rack. If you were smart, you wouldn't either."

"I thought you were dead. When I saw you today, I thought you were dead."

The flip remark she had been about to make died on her lips at the matter-of-factness of his tone. The idea that he actually, well, _cared_ was... Isabel sighed inwardly. She did not know what it was. But her voice was gentle when she spoke.

"Well, I didn't die," she began slowly. "I didn't die, and the kid didn't die and that's on you too. We can't always know what we're jumping into; sometimes you just have to say a little prayer to Lady Luck and have faith that your wits and your friends will be enough. It's not reckless, it's just... the way it is sometimes. And if you repeat this to anyone I will deny it to my last breath but," she tried for a smile. "I was glad you were at my back today."

The look he threw her was sceptical. "Really."

"Yeah."

Softer now. "Really?"

"Don't spread it around. I'd hate for people to think I might actually like you."

The smile she sought flashed across his face so fast she thought she might have imagined it. "My lips are sealed," he told her dryly and she grinned herself. Satisfied she had talked him out of the worst of an evening of misplaced brooding she covered a yawn and rose to her feet, the bed she had been so eager to shun beckoning.

"You're not like Sarevok."

Angelo's voice stopped her in her tracks and she threw a puzzled glance back over her shoulder at him.

"What?"

"You asked me why. Why you and not another mercenary group. That – this – is why." He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on some unknown point in the distance as he struggled to find the words and she sank back down beside him. "It's difficult to explain it to you – you never knew him, not really. To you, he was the bogeyman, the monster beneath the bed. I knew the _man_ and it was a thousand times more terrifying. Those years, the things I did in his name... those years were a nightmare from which I could not awake."

Isabel watched him carefully as he spoke and wondered if he even realised that this was the first time since their first meeting that she had ever heard him speak her brother's name. Perhaps he was right about not truly knowing Sarevok. There was a look in Angelo's eyes that cut at her, like broken glass. He had put that look there.

Angelo took a breath as his eyes met hers, hardened with resolve. "I am not here seeking atonement, or redemption. Make no mistake; you are not looking at a changed man. The man before you now is little different from the man who ordered your death. I'm just a mercenary, Isabel; my morals, like my arm, are out for hire and I will lend them both to your dearest cause. But I don't ever want to go back there again. I can't."

He could feel her eyes on him, burning through his skull and he was grateful for the darkness that hid his face. He had been in – what had Isabel called it? Knots. He had been in knots all day, wrestling with the guilt that churned in his stomach. Not guilt for the murderer's escape, as he had led the others to believe. No, what he had felt when he saw her half-dead on the tanner's pier was far more intimate.

No one ever tells you that survival tastes like ashes.

_What am I doing?_ He asked himself despairingly staring out across the city, watching Athkatla's yellow lights winking back at him. He was not one to speak of these matters. He'd put them behind him, Sarevok and Tamoko and Esim and all the rest. The whole point was to not think of them at all, wasn't it?

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and tilted his head to meet her gaze. There it was, he thought. It was the Gods-damned compassion in those dangerous, dark eyes of hers that undid him.

"You should get some sleep, Angelo," she said. "It does not do to dwell in the past, and we have a long day before us and many more to come." She gave his shoulder one final squeeze and vanished into the night.

He could still feel her hand there, like a brand. _Us_ she had said. In a strange sort of way it felt like he belonged to her now, like the druid and the thief and the bard. Like Imoen, locked up in a wizard's prison somewhere far away. Finally, he had the trust he had sought.

He only wished it did not feel so much like a lie.

xxx

Isabel climbed the stairs back to her room tiredly. Her body ached in protest of her evening adventure (such that it was) and whilst she stubbornly reassured herself that she regretted not a minute of it, she was _more_ than ready to find a pillow and the nearest flat, horizontal surface.

As she padded softly down the hall, she noticed that Jaheira's door was slightly ajar and she paused. Isabel could see through the narrow space the druid sitting comfortably by her small hearth, a sheaf of parchment between her fingers. Her tawny hair was left unbound, just brushing her shoulders in a manner that somehow felt private – as if people were not normally supposed to see her hair down. Her olive skin had a paler caste than usual and her eyes were shadowed. She looked so... _vulnerable_ in the flickering firelight. Isabel swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. Jaheira wasn't supposed to look vulnerable.

She raised a hand and knocked gently on the door, pushing it open. "Hey," she said softly. "Mind if I come in?"

Jaheira looked up, startled. "Isabel? What are you doing up and about? Oh, never mind, just let me check you haven't done something else too idiotic and injured yourself further."

Isabel bit back a grin. She had never known her mother and did not know what it was to have had one, but sometimes she wondered if it was anything like this. Her humour faded quickly though, in the face of what she had come here to say. What she needed to say.

"Please, don't get up," she said with a shake of her head. "I'm feeling pretty well, all things considered and for that, I thank you. Truly, I know it must have taken a lot out of you."

Jaheira's face softened. "It was no trouble, Isabel."

"That is gracious, but I know that wasn't the case," she replied gently. "Anyway, I want you to know that I do appreciate it. And I'll try and keep it from happening again."

"Please, do not make promises you cannot keep," she replied dryly.

"I did say 'try'," she amended, then sighed. "But that's not all I wanted to say. Jaheira, I... I owe you an apology. No, please," she held up her hand when Jaheira opened her mouth, and the words that had been stuck in her throat for nearly two weeks now spilled forth. "Let me get this out. I should never have said what I did about Khalid. And I should not have pushed you away as I have these last weeks. I was so angry with you. When Keto told me you had left, I thought you were gone for good, that you had abandoned me. And even though you came back, I still couldn't bring myself to forgive. It's a poor excuse, I know, and I am sorry for it. I am so sorry."

Jaheira bowed her head, staring at her hands. "You shame me sometimes, you truly do," she said quietly. "It is I who should be apologising. I know Khalid–" she tried not to choke on his name "–I know he meant more to you than just another sword arm. It was wrong of me to suggest otherwise. But more than that, you were right that day about me. I have not been... myself, of late. I've been a burden upon you and upon this group."

"Oh, for the Gods' sakes!" Isabel swore. "What I said – I was in a temper, please, I did not mean that. I was just being pissy. Jaheira, your husband was murdered. You have a right to mourn him."

Jaheira's smile was kind, and just a little bit sad. "Isabel, you have a friend yet to save and the price of that freedom is so high you felt it needed to hire a man who once sought your life. This is no time for grief."

Isabel crushed the older woman into a hug. "It's not fair though," she whispered fiercely into her ear, struggling to keep the tears from her voice "None of it's fair."

"No, it isn't. I will deal with this in my own fashion, Isabel. In time." She pulled back to look at Isabel full in the face. Even with her face abloom with bruises, she was still oddly beautiful with her dark eyes and tumbling curls. "I am proud of you. Remember that."

"Proud of what exactly?" Isabel smiled weakly. "That part where I took the leadership of this group away from you, or the part where I hired my psychopathic brother's henchman?"

"You did not take being a leader from me. Irenicus took that, and so much more... For that I swear he shall be repaid in full. You merely grew into your own." She touched her cheek. "As for Angelo, well, you made a decision and I will do my best to honour it. But please just tell me one thing: is this about Bhaal?"

"What?" Isabel asked, startled by the sudden turn of their conversation. Jaheira's face however was insistent.

"Tell me that this business with Angelo isn't about your father. Tell me that this isn't part of some misguided crusade to prove to yourself that anyone can be redeemed no matter their crimes, that everyone deserves a second chance."

"Everyone _does_ deserve a second chance," Isabel muttered under her breath almost immediately and Jaheira's face softened to pity.

"Isabel, you have done nothing for which you need to be redeemed. Your blood does not dictate or shape who you are."

"It shapes events though, doesn't it?" Her words held a bitter edge and she sighed deeply. "Look, you want me to tell you this isn't about Bhaal? Fine. It isn't about Bhaal. I am not trying to reform Angelo – for one thing, I believe if a person genuinely wants to change they have to do it themselves, it cannot be forced upon them. But if it comes to pass that owing to our company he _does_ decide he wants to be a better man, would that be such a terrible thing?"

"Can you ever trust him?"

Isabel hesitated. "I want to trust him. Is that the same thing?"

Jaheira did not answer her, but whether it was because she disagreed or simply did not know, Isabel could not tell.


	11. Deviant

_Author's note: Dear Readers, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Trying something a little bit different, so as always, feedback and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated._

_Note, there is a very strong T/ mild M rating for some suggested themes in this chapter._

**10 – Deviant**

The Cowled Wizards liked to call it the Residence for the Magically Deviant, or sometimes merely 'Spellhold'. The inmates – the mages interned in the remote fortress for practicing their craft illegally in Amn – had a much scarier name for it. They called it home.

Imoen sat hunched in the far corner of the library in the east wing. Or what she assumed was the east wing – it was difficult to tell where or even what time of day it was when every window in the Asylum was bricked over. The residents all went through the motions of their daily routine but for all any of them really knew it could be moonrise whilst they supped on breakfast.

She sat alone in a sort of self-imposed isolation, not wanting to make small talk with her fellow inmates. An open book lay in her lap and sometimes, especially when someone looked her way, she would raise it closer to her face. But she did not read the words. Instead, her thoughts tumbled feverishly behind her green eyes and she brought her knees up to her chest and hugged herself, wishing once more she was a thousand leagues from this place.

Today now marked her third week in Spellhold. It was not what she had expected when the Wizards had spoken of this place. Her imagination had pictured something more in line with chains and dank dungeons and a bread-and-water diet. Rather, the Asylum was a large fortress (although she was not sure just how big for many of its doors were locked) that housed some forty or so mages. The rooms she was permitted in were furnished comfortably, if not to overt expense. There were small libraries and fire-lit sitting rooms and meals were served in a wide hall called the mess. Her quarters were cramped and she shared it with another inmate called Dili, but she slept on a serviceable bed with warm blankets and together they shared a candle.

But Imoen was under no illusions that she was in a prison.

The first thing she had discovered upon her arrival was that she was unable to use her magic, not even for something as simple as a cantrip for light. The Wizards who tended the Asylum had clasped a seemingly delicate collar around her neck – she fingered the golden wire now, tracing the grooves of the ancient language etched into the metal. The other inmates all wore similar collars. As long as they wore them their abilities were useless and there was no discernable way of removing them. She had tried in vain, she thought with a grimace, for hours on that first night.

Then there was the ritual they called Testing, an unpleasant process whereby the Wizards invaded their minds to document the full extent of their abilities. Imoen had only had to submit to it once upon her arrival, but she knew other residents were Tested weekly, or daily. The very thought of it made her skin crawl.

There were other things in the Asylum too, little reminders like the bricked over windows that warned you that this was not a friendly port or safe haven. There were cells in the south wing that the Wizards would toss you into if you misbehaved or caused any trouble – or sometimes for no reason at all. At night she could often hear the cries of people trapped in those rooms, awful, desperate sounds.

And everywhere, the inmates feared the footsteps of Wanev, the Coordinator of the Asylum. Imoen recalled her conversation with a few of the mages shortly after her arrival.

"No, no, no, my pretty little flower," said Naljier Skal when she asked about Wanev. "We do not speak of the Coordinator. To speak his name is to summon him, yes?"

"Never mind Naljier," a friendly young mage called Merion told her. "He is a bit touched in the head," and as if to prove his words he tapped Naljier's forehead affectionately. Naljier took no heed of him, busy polishing the gemstone in his hand to a bright shine. However, when Merion spoke to her again, his voice dropped in a hushed warning. "But you should be careful of the Coordinator. Most of the Wizards are not too bad, so long as you don't make any trouble. Some like to... amuse themselves with a few of the residents here." He avoided her appalled gaze uncomfortably. "Particularly with the girls."

"How can they be allowed to behave so?" Imoen had demanded quietly. Merion shrugged.

"The law ends at the door there. You learn to look out for yourself. And pray that Wanev does not find reason to notice you. If he does..." his voice trailed off ominously. Imoen soon learned that residents who were called into his offices rarely came out again. And if they did, she thought looking sadly at Naljier, they were irrevocably damaged.

"What happened to him?" she asked Merion quietly. Merion looked at her oddly.

"The Cowled Wizards "happened to him", that's what. They happen to all of us, eventually. First they rob you of your freedom. Then they rob you of your sanity." He sighed, running a free hand through his untidy brown hair. "You don't know it yet, little flower, but you and me – we're the lucky ones. We aren't sorcerers or seers or wizards trying to command powers beyond lighting a fire or a sleeping charm. We were just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time with naught but a simple spell upon our lips. The Coordinator does not consider us above his notice. But others..."

And he told her about Naljier. Naljier, with his lovely warm eyes and even lovelier accent had once roamed Faerun as a wandering bard, playing for commoners and nobles alike. Merion said that Naljier was renowned for his curious ability to see into the hearts and minds of his audiences and sing songs that spoke to their innermost yearnings. He had the divining gift, though did not quite know it – at least, not until he arrived in Amn to ply his remarkable talent only to run afoul of the Cowled Wizards.

"Wanev forced him to See," Merion said, his voice tinged with equal parts horror and resignation. "Over and over and over. I do not know what he made him Look at, but whatever it was it reduced his mind to little more than that of a child's." She watched him now from her corner, carefully cleaning the same sapphire pendant he always wore around his neck. He giggled occasionally, when the stone caught the candlelight. He reminded her a bit of Minsc in many ways. Like her old Rashemite comrade, Naljier was very much a boy in the body of a fully grown and _very_ powerful man. His naiveté was as endearing as it was heartbreaking, especially during those rare times when she would catch him in song and a part of her felt like crying for the man he had once been.

In fact, so far as she could see it, the only good thing about the Asylum was that she never saw Jon Irenicus. The Cowled Wizards thankfully seemed to recognise the danger the man presented and kept him sequestered far away from the other inmates. Still, Imoen shuddered inwardly when she thought about the mad mage imprisoned somewhere under the same roof as she.

The sound of footsteps entering the library alerted her, and her head jerked up warily to see if it was one of their keepers. So did nigh every other mage in the room, save Naljier. There was another reminder, she thought bitterly. That inescapable sense of dread, barely suppressed, that permeated every stone, brick, nook and cranny of this place.

It was only Merion however, and relief turned quickly to irritation when he noticed her and waved from across the room. _Damn it_, she thought as she smiled back. Couldn't anyone leave her be for just a few Gods-blessed minutes? She sighed inwardly. Merion was not a bad person and he had been kind and helpful these past weeks. He was also probably the closest thing to a friend she had in this forsaken place and that made Imoen terribly sad because she missed her _old_ friends.

"Hello flower," Merion greeted her cheerfully. His voice grated on her nerves but she told herself firmly to be polite.

"How are you, Merion?" she asked, looking back down at the open pages cradled in her lap. Hopefully he would get the hint.

"As well as any of us can be expected to be in this lunatic asylum. Why are you reading?"

Imoen tried to keep the resentment from her words. "What else is there to do here?"

"I take your point. Well, you might want to put it away soon. We're to be escorted to the mess in a few, remember?"

Imoen made a face. The Wizards liked to gather all the residents together every week to discuss their "rehabilitation" and the behaviour expected of them once released back into the general populace. It was a ridiculous exercise – every mage interned here knew there was only one way to leave Spellhold and that was in a wooden box. Imoen wondered sometimes if it wasn't just another subtle method of breaking their will.

"Come now, it's better than Testing," Merion reminded her encouragingly. He was right.

"I'm sorry, Merion," she said with a tired sigh. "I was just... thinking."

"About home?"

Imoen smile was sad. "Kind of. My foster sister and my friends."

Merion nodded sympathetically. "Ah. I don't say this to be mean, Imoen, but you would be better to forget them. They can't help you in here and their memory will only bring you sorrow."

"I'm not ready to believe that just yet, thanks."

"I know. You will, though, in time."

Imoen refused to accept his words, even as part of her whispered nastily in her head that there was likely more truth in it than she cared to admit. "You don't know Isabel," she replied distantly.

"You don't know the Wizards," was the counter. Imoen shrugged her shoulders in the appearance of indifference. Merion opened his mouth as if to say something but the sudden entrance of one of their Cowled jailors stole the words from his lips. His face blanched and he hissed at Imoen.

"Keep your head down, do you hear?" he warned in a very soft voice. "Don't draw attention to yourself if you can help it. Aeres will make your life miserable if you do."

Imoen nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. She watched Aeres out of the corner of her eye carefully, not liking what she saw. He was a handsome man, with sharply cut features and long, white-blonde hair pulled back in a pony-tail. His eyes were an icy blue. But for all his good looks, there was a cruelty in the set of his mouth that made her skin crawl.

Aeres scanned the room, his crystalline eyes sparkling with malice. The residents all seemed to shrink as his gaze swept over them. "Lonk!" he barked suddenly and the dwarf who was responsible for much of their day-to-day supervision scurried forward. He was nicknamed "Lonk the Sane" by the older inmates – Imoen had always wondered if he had earned the moniker because he oversaw the crazier residents or rather because he was the only member of the Asylum staff that had no affinity for the Weave.

"Tell me, Lonk, how are our merry bunch of lunatics this afternoon? I trust there have been no complaints about our generous hospitality?"

"There ain't been any trouble 'ere, milord. Quiet as mice, all of them," Lonk rumbled. Imoen got the impression Lonk didn't like Aeres much either.

"Indeed? I am shocked, truly. Is it not the nature of mongrels to bite the hand that feeds them?" He stood before one of the mages, a small, swarthy Amnish man and cuffed him viciously over the head. Lightning danced between his fingers. "What do you say, mongrel? Are you not grateful?"

The small man mumbled something incoherently and Aeres cuffed him again, the electricity making him twitch in pain. _A bully_, Imoen decided with disgust. _Aeres is nothing but a plain, old-fashioned bully._

Aeres had moved on and now had Merion in his sights. "And you, cur? You're scarcely a mage! Why the masters did not simply throw you into the sea, I will never understand."

"Yes milord," Merion answered curtly. Aeres' grin grew wider.

"Good cur, you're learning. I suppose the collar's not much of a change for you – I hear you could barely light a candle with your Art!" He drew Merion in close and Merion tried not to wince as Aeres' fingertips brushed against his flesh. "But I am sure the Coordinator will find a use for you. After all, some spells require the life force of a man. To think, Merion, you could be so lucky to be part of such a magical working even if you have all the talent of a turnip."

"Yes milord."

"Good, good. And now," his eyes fell upon her and Imoen bit the inside of her cheek to keep from squirming under that look. "What have we here? Such a pretty young thing. On your feet, girl, let's have a look at you."

Imoen rose slowly, her heart thudding in her chest so loudly she wondered he did not hear it. She glanced around at the other residents – a few watched with fear or distaste, but most refused to look at her at all. That, more than anything else, made her afraid. Merion's warning of Wizards who sometimes amused themselves with the female inmates echoed uneasily through her mind and she shifted her feet slightly, into the balanced, fighting stance her thief-master had showed her.

"What is your name?" he demanded.

"Leave the little lass be, grey one." It was Naljier who spoke, his lilting Dalelands accent suddenly hard and not sounding at all like it belonged to a crazy man. "She's not done anything to you."

Aeres glared at the bigger man and snapped his fingers. Naljier's head jerked back as if Aeres had struck him.

"Perhaps that will teach you to speak when spoken to, mongrel. Now girl, tell me your name." Imoen hesitated and Aeres stepped closer, his voice deadly soft. "I will not ask you nicely again."

"Imoen," she said shortly and looked straight ahead, not meeting his hungry look. She had a sinking feeling about the entire situation and didn't know quite what she should do to get out of it. Isabel would have made some smart arse crack the moment Aeres entered the room and raised a hand against the first mage. She would have provoked a fight, heedless of the consequences. But Imoen worried at the unknown cost of such an action. Would it make things better or worse for her, or indeed, for the other inmates?

And yet, experience taught her that if you did not stand up to a bully they would never leave you alone.

Aeres gripped her chin forcefully, making her look him in the eye. "That's 'Imoen, _milord_,'" he hissed.

She gave him eye for eye now, willing herself not to let her fear show. She could feel the lighting between his fingers, slowly burning her skin. Part of her could admire his control over the spell – most other wizards who played with lightning in such a fashion would have killed her with their touch. Aeres, however, was only interested in pain.

She refused to give this schoolyard bully the satisfaction of seeing hers. "I thought Cowled Wizards were without title," she said through clenched teeth. Aeres' grip tightened and she gasped with pain.

"You see this collar? This makes you _nothing_, you understand? In this place, I _am_ your Lord and you _will_ address me with respect!"

It was too much and something mocking slipped into her voice. "King of the Crazies? Gee, you _have_ done well for yourself, mate!"

Aeres' face contorted with rage and he backhanded her so hard she stumbled. Grabbing a fist full of her hair he jerked her to her feet.

"On your knees, bitch. I'll teach you to respect your betters!"

Something inside her snapped. Imoen did not stop to think through the consequences of her actions as she brought her knee up sharply to connect with his groin and shoved him away from her. Aeres howled in pain and lunged at her. She helped him over her hip with a grim smile. Isabel had taught her _that_ manoeuvre! _Teach the little shit to think that a collar makes me helpless,_ she thought savagely. Before the wizard could recover his senses to utter a spell, Imoen was behind him, twisting his arms behind his back and covering his mouth with her hand. He bit down so hard blood welled, but she ignored it. She did not have long now. The commotion had brought more Wizards to the library, she could hear their footsteps down the hall and the other residents, even Lonk, were staring at them openly in a mixture of horror and awe.

She bent down so her lips were level with Aeres' ear. "Don't you _ever_ lay a finger on me again," she whispered in a fierce voice she barely recognised, feeling his muscles tense against her grip. His fellows were almost upon them. "Otherwise the next time you ask me to get down my knees I'll bite your cock off. _Milord._"

The doors slammed open, revealing a tall, gaunt man in a deep, emerald robe. His expression was one of irritation, rather than the blind rage that Aeres wore. She felt the force of his magic immediately, sending her sailing through the air. She crashed into a chair and Naljier helped her to her feet.

"That was stupid, flower," he said in an undertone as she wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead. "You have his attention now."

Imoen returned her gaze back to the man who had sent her flying. So this was the feared Coordinator. Aeres stumbled over toward him and she had to bite back a grin. She was not the only one Wanev's spell had thrown across the room.

"What is the meaning of this?" The Coordinator snapped, his eyes taking her in. She must have looked a sight, what with her mussed magenta locks, lightning-burned cheeks and blood blossoming from the tooth marks on her hand. Aeres whined, his blue eyes wild.

"That _bitch_ attached me! I want her punished! I want her thrown into the Gauntlet, I want her –"

"Silence, Aeres! Your wishes are noted." He turned and pointed at Lonk. "You witnessed the altercation? Tell me what passed."

The dwarf smoothed his beard, eyes darting furtively between Wanev, Aeres and Imoen. "Master Aeres _was_ attacked, it's true," he admitted. "He tried to, ah, force the girl and she have him a good 'un in the balls for the favour."

One of the residents chuckled at this, but a swift look from the Coordinator quickly silenced her. Imoen's heart sank at the glowering Aeres. She had made her first enemy here. She could only hope Wanev would not make a second.

Wanev rolled his eyes heavenward. "By Mystra, Aeres, do you not understand discretion? If you _must_ seek your amusement with the residents, for all our sakes, use an enchantment charm like the others, would you?"

Imoen swallowed, suddenly very grateful for Aeres' arrogance. "Who is she?" he continued.

"Her name be Imoen, sir," Lonk replied. "The one they brought in with that Irenicus fellow."

"Ah." Wanev's voice sounded disappointed. "She did not Test very well. No matter." He turned as if to leave, but Aeres voice stopped him.

"_Sir!_" he spluttered. "You cannot think that such behaviour can go unpunished?"

"Aeres, I tolerate _your_ behaviour only so far as it does not cause disturbances in my Asylum. Today, you failed spectacularly or did you not realise your little display disrupted a _very_ delicate piece of work of mine on the third floor? Indeed, I do think such antics should go punished. You are here forth sequestered to the north tower."

Aeres stared at the Coordinator in outrage. "I _demand_ –"

"You may demand nothing. Now go, or must I escort you there myself?"

Aeres was silent for a full minute before nodding sullenly and sweeping out of the room, sparing a vehement glare for Imoen on his way out. She closed her eyes and was about to breathe a sigh of relief before Naljier tapped her elbow warningly. She opened them to see the Coordinator watching her and her heart sank again. Instinct told her she was not out of the woods yet.

"Aeres requires a lesson in discretion," he told her. There was no trace of humour or empathy in those cold eyes. "You require one in respect. Lonk." The dwarf came to heel obediently. "Throw her in one of the cells."

Imoen was led to the south wing, flanked by Lonk and another Cowled Wizard. Without a word, the dwarf opened an engraved iron door and shoved her through, slamming it shut behind her. She was left there, alone in a darkness more complete than any she had ever known.

She groped for something to hold onto in the blackness, trying to feel her across the slick tiles to find a wall or an object or _anything_. Her hands could find nothing however, but a seemingly endless expanse of cold floor. She even tried to find the iron door she had come through, but to no avail. There was no light, nothing to touch or listen to but for the sound of her own breathing.

Imoen finally huddled on the floor, drawing herself into a ball and rocking back and forth on her heels. This was the worst thing about not being able to cast, she thought miserably. She could not even summon a simple werelight to ward off the black.

_Now_ she really was helpless.

Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she continued to rock herself. A desperate loneliness had settled upon her heart and threatened to overwhelm her. She missed her friends. She missed Isabel, with her cheek and stubbornness. She missed Minsc and Dynaheir. In the shadow of the Asylum, there was no Jaheira to advise caution, no Khalid to tell her it would all be alright in the end and no Isabel to hold her hand to remind her that she was never alone.

Where was Isabel? Where was her damn foster-sister when she needed her? When the Hells was she going to get her out of here?

_Maybe she's forgotten about you,_ a nasty voice whispered. _Maybe she thinks you're not worth the trouble._

"She wouldn't leave me," Imoen said aloud, though her voice remained very small. "Cradle to grave, that's what we promised. Cradle to grave."

The words became a mantra and she repeated them over and over as she sobbed herself to sleep in the darkness.


	12. The Road Beckons

_Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review the last couple of chapters. Glad to know this little fic still has a few stalwart readers :)_

_Merry Christmas :)_

**11 – The Road Beckons**

Angelo leaned back on a wooden bench, his long legs crossed at his ankles and gazed up at the high, vaulted ceiling inside the Houses of the Council of Six. It was nothing compared to the decadent opulence of the private palaces in Sembia or the exquisite splendour of the imperial estates in faraway Kara-Tur. But there was an austere, imposing sort of beauty about the architecture that was ever so slightly softened by the careful, detailed artistry hand-carved into the stone masonry. Angelo decided he liked the effect.

He tilted his head back down to glance across the bustling floor, its occupants oblivious to the loveliness above their heads. Here was the home of the unsleeping giant of the great merchant state of Amn – its bureaucracy. _The harshest of all mistresses,_ he thought with wry disdain as he watched civil servants scurry back and forth, papers piled nigh to their noses cradled in their arms. _She'll make a man wait hours only to give him something he does not need nor has asked for, and then she'll demand he pay twice over for the privilege._

Business – or rather the pursuit of it – had brought him back to this bustling bedrock of bureaucracy with Keto. In the two weeks following their solving of Bridge District murders, work had actually been fairly easy to come by. Whilst the Watch had not retained their services again, word of the boy's rescue had spread – just as Samuel had said it would. On the back of their newfound reputation their company had been kept busy by various clients (including, rather unusually, a circus). Almost a week ago however, the well had dried up and Isabel had everyone out on the streets again, looking for work.

Keto was at it now, trying to shake down a clerk for any information that might help. He watched the young bard with a rueful smile. He could admit now that he had misjudged her. She might have been green as grass by the mercenary standard he was accustomed to, but the past weeks had showed him some of what he thought Isabel must have seen in the girl. She was that curious sort of person who had a friend almost everywhere you went, and if she didn't, she was sure to make one before long. Her contacts were responsible for the bulk of their employment. Moreover, she was a quick learner and decent company. And if he wondered sometimes that she might hit the wine bottle a little harder than she perhaps ought, well that was her business, wasn't it? He certainly was not in a position to judge.

Overall, even with their recent lapse in paying work, Angelo could not complain about his lot. In fact, if he was scrupulously honest with himself – which he rarely was – he would say that he might actually be, well, _happy_. It was an unfamiliar, suspiciously pleasant sensation. For the first time in a long time he had steady, honest mercenary work with a group of people he genuinely enjoyed. He was not sure which part of his good fortune was more unexpected. He certainly had never expected to _like_ Isabel or her companions. But the more time he spent in their company, the more he found himself warming to the easy-tempered Yoshimo and to Keto, with her friendly, wide-eyed optimism. He was astonished to realise he looked forward to the sharp, albeit good-natured banter he traded with Isabel and whilst he conceded he would probably never be able to count Jaheira as a friend, he respected her above all others.

_Time was, all I ever looked forward to was the lotus,_ he thought with a wry grin. Now, it took the form of those late evenings in the common room of the Five Flagons, sharing a meal with Yoshimo, Isabel and Jaheira and them all laughing at one of Keto's outrageous stories. _Aye, things could stand to be a lot worse._

The sound of laughter floated above the din. He shook his head, bemused when he saw the source – the girl surely was one of a kind if she could get a bureaucrat to crack a smile. He noticed other clerks looking up from their papers with confusion as if they had never before heard the sound of someone laughing inside these walls.

Even so, the bard caught his eye and gave the tiniest shake of her head. He sighed heavily. They had struck out once again, it seemed.

Disengaging herself from her conversation, Keto made her way across the floor toward him. She was an attractive girl, he noted approvingly. She was dressed in grass green skirts and had drawn back her copper hair in a neat knot at the base of her neck, somehow making her blue eyes seem larger and brighter. She was not quite his type – he liked his women a little older, a little surer – but if he had been ten years younger it would have been hard to resist the temptation.

"No luck?" he asked her.

"None," she replied, her mouth twisting apologetically. "Not unless you count these." She waved some papers in his face.

"What are those?" He asked with a frown.

"Hmm, let's see shall we? This one here is a form whereby we state 'our intention to apply to independently seek mercenary contracts within Athkatla.'"

"What good would that do us?"

"Well, after two weeks, we're then eligible to _make_ an application to independently seek contracts in Athkatla."

Angelo narrowed his eyes. "This is a joke."

"I haven't even reached the punch line yet. Once we make our formal application, it needs to be reviewed and approved by the Master of Clerks. That process usually takes around a month. If we're lucky."

Angelo dropped his head into his hands, a low groan escaping his throat. "Gods above, I'd sooner wrestle a dragon than try to navigate this place. Can't Isabel just find another childhood friend?"

Keto clapped his shoulder cheerfully. "There, there. It's not so bad. Gerald over there thinks he could probably waive the approval process for us."

She chuckled at the black look he gave her. "Is not the point of being independent mercenaries, I don't know, that we're independent?" he grumbled.

"Either way, Gerald says there isn't really any work going at the moment – at least, nothing that is passing through these halls. Although I suppose we could all apply for jobs as civil servants if we get really desperate."

"Don't even joke about that," Angelo warned. "How much parchment and ink do you think it takes to run a country anyhow?"

"I prefer not to think about it. Did you check the bounty postings?"

He sighed heavily. "There was little of note. Barring a warrant out for the Shadowmaster that is, but I think we can give that contract a miss all the same."

Keto raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Really? They actually have a bounty out for the Shadowmaster of Amn?"

"Aye, although there's no actual name or description provided, so I don't know how anyone would prove it was him, even if they did catch him. So," he said staring at his hands. "That's it then."

"How wonderful. It appears we're going back to Isabel empty handed. Again." His ears did not miss the hidden note of dejection in her voice. He glanced up at her with mild surprise as she swept out her skirts and sank down beside him. There was little sign of humour or levity left in her eyes.

He would not ask her what was wrong. She would tell him if she chose to, in her own time.

They sat there on that carved wooden bench for long minutes without saying a word. "She took a chance on me," she said finally. "I don't want to disappoint her."

To her surprise, Angelo began to chuckle. "Darlin', I once signed the order for her execution, and shortly after tried to run her through with my sword," he informed her dryly. "You're worried about her regretting bringing you along? Imagine for a moment how _I_ feel."

Keto had to smile at that. "A point well made," she said and tilted her head quizzically to study him. "Just who _were_ you before all this, Angelo?"

He was not fooled by the casual tone of her query, and gifted her with his most disarming smile. "No one worth remembering."

"You are a terrible liar, Angelo," she said, smiling herself.

He shrugged indifferently. "Whoever I was, whatever I did, it's in the past. It hardly matters anymore."

She looked at him oddly. "The past always matters."

Angelo shifted, suddenly feeling awkward under her stare. He did not like Keto when she was like this, all perceptive and knowing. Those big blue eyes of hers saw too much for comfort sometimes.

"Shall we?"

They began to wind their way back toward the corridor that lead to the exit, feeling worn and a little drained. The day had taken on a sour note and he wished he had something more to show for it than a pair of empty hands.

"– Waukeen damn all of you! Have you no care for your subjects? Does this news not prey upon your conscience? Have at you!"

Both Angelo and Keto paused, glancing at each other as their ears both pricked to the unknown speaker. The angry tirade seemed to be coming from one of the alcoves to their left and Angelo slowly pushed the mahogany door a fraction to get a better look.

The speaker was a short, whippy man who was addressing a stately woman of mature years. The expression she wore was as pained as her aggressor's was indignant.

"I will thank you to speak civilly, sir," she said trying (albeit not very hard) to keep the curt annoyance in her voice to a minimum. "Please understand, the Council cannot intervene in your dispute."

"A dispute? That is what the Council calls the siege of a town, the wholesale slaughter of any who ventures beyond its walls? What have the innocent citizens of Trademeet done to deserve such treatment?" the short, angry man demanded.

Angelo and Keto exchanged another surprised glance. Trademeet was an influential and prosperous town in central Amn... and it was under siege? Intrigued, he leaned further in.

"– nonetheless, it does not fall under the purview of the Council. This is for the Lord Mayor to resolve," she was arguing.

"No, damn it! You _must_ lend us troops to rout the druids. We are completely cut off – the caravans no longer come, the merchant families have practically beggared themselves trying to feed everyone. Please, I beseech you woman, send us aid!"

"As I have told you, sir, I do not have the authority to take such action."

"Then go fetch me someone who _does_ have the authority!"

"Sir!"

The man glared at her furiously. "Tell me this if you please: if my Lord Mayor Coprith were not the brother of Lady Aura, would the esteemed Council of Six be quite so casual in their condemnation of our town _then_?"

The woman's eyes glittered. "I will not discuss politics with you," she said coldly. "You have made your request and it has been denied. You have no further business here and I shall thank you to leave now. Good day." She turned on heel and swept through the door behind her, leaving the Trademeet representative to stare uselessly at the century old oak.

"Perhaps not so empty-handed after all?" Angelo winked at the already grinning bard. He pushed open the door fully and Keto slipped an arm through the crook of the startled Trademeet representative's elbow. The man blinked, confused at the sudden appearance of a lovely young woman on his arm.

"Forgive us, but we couldn't help but overhear..."

xxx

The entry hall of the Harper compound in Athkatla was a beautiful thing to behold, furnished in dark mahogany and rich colours, with the silver crescent moon and golden harp crest lovingly engraved into the wood of the ceiling. _Exquisite taste_, Jaheira thought as she waited, suddenly uncomfortable in her dusty, well-travelled clothes and feeling out of place in a way she never thought she could in the house of her fellows. _Exquisite and expensive._

She did not appreciate the sour aftertaste the rich decor left in her mouth, but perhaps her recalcitrance toward it was unfair – a legacy of the Tethyran grove that had raised her which taught its children to suspect excess.

"Jaheira of Tethyr, I can only presume?" a smooth, male voice behind her remarked. She spun around rapidly at the sound, green eyes meeting green.

"So wary, even in the house of your brothers and sisters?" There was amusement in the Harper's tone, although not unkind. He was a good-looking man, younger than she, but he carried himself with an easy confidence. Her quick assessment of him suggested that it was not unearned.

"Old habits die hard, and this is perhaps the oldest," she said after a moment's pause.

The man's toothy smile broadened. "One I can admire, certainly. Although I hope I never give you cause for your wariness."

"True wariness is to watch everybody, regardless of who gives cause to do so," she quipped. "After all, history seems to agree that it is those you never see coming that present the greatest danger, no?"

He laughed outright at that. "They say you are a woman to be reckoned with, milady, and I see that they were right. I am Nelan Quinn, at your service."

He bowed slightly and extended his hand. She smiled and shook it firmly. "Good to meet you, Master Quinn."

"Please, not so formal. It's just Quinn. I would welcome you to Athkatla, even if I understand it to be under such sad circumstances." His smile faded and green eyes grew serious. "My sincerest condolences upon the death of your husband and our brother, Khalid. I confess I did not know him, but from what everyone says, it is my loss."

Jaheira forced the smile to her lips. She wasn't used to this yet, the accepting of condolences, the polite swallowing of strangers' pity. "Thank you," she managed.

He ducked his head, and mercifully, did not press the subject further. "In any case, you are most welcome here. We are few in number, here in Athkatla, and another face about these halls is a pleasant change."

Quinn gestured for her to follow and she fell into step easily with him as he led her through the entry hall and into the house, each room as lavishly decorated as the first.

"How is Renfeld faring? The Harper from the slums?" she inquired as they walked.

"He is fully recovered, thanks in no small part to your efforts. He sends his regards and wished he could be here to greet you personally, but his duties required him in the city today."

"How many Harpers are there working in Athkatla?"

"A dozen of us give or take," he replied. "This estate serves as our headquarters."

"It is very... fine." Quinn did not miss the hint of disapproval.

"I know, it _is_ a bit much, isn't it?" he grinned. "In truth, the house is actually owned by my aunt and she has a habit of overdoing things."

"Your aunt is a Harper?"

"Retired," he corrected. "But as the surviving heir of a very successful merchant family, she came into a tidy fortune around nine years ago. This place is part of her inheritance."

"I see. Who is the Herald of these parts?"

"There isn't one." Quinn had stopped and opened a door for her. The room beyond was as tasteful as the rest of the mansion, painted in jade and pinstriped in the palest green. "This is the parlour. An old friend desires your company; perhaps you might discuss it with him further."

"An old friend?" Jaheira asked curiously as she entered the room. As far as she was aware, she knew none of the Amnish agents. "Who?"

"Jaheira. It has been a long time." The voice was male and warm and as familiar to her as her own. She smiled, genuine this time, as the man it belonged to – the man who had sponsored her into the Harpers, who had mentored her, even been something of a father to her – crossed the room. Even after all these years he still towered over her, looking down over that hooked nose, his mouth curved in a smile of his own. He raised his hands to frame her face and gently, leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Too long," he said more softly.

"You've grown sentimental in your old age, Dermin," she joked weakly, moved in spite of herself. The Harper laughed.

"Ah, my dear, how I've missed your wit! Come, sit with me and let us catch up on old times."

"I will leave you both to it," Quinn said with a wink, and closed the parlour door behind him. Jaheira accepted the glass of spiced Arabellan wine Dermin poured from a crystal decanter. His tawny eyes never left her face as she drank, even as he sipped from his own cup. He settled into the high-backed armchair by the hearth with a cat's easy grace and gestured for her to do the same.

"I did not realise you operated in Amn," she remarked. "Last I checked you were based in Waterdeep?"

"Until recently that was true," he agreed. "But the game's afoot here in Athkatla and our brethren are too few in these parts. Before I arrived, I thought they requested my presence to advise on the mounting tensions between Amn and Tethyr over Riatavin in the south, but... well, doubtless by now you have heard of this 'guild war' being waged in the streets?"

Jaheira nodded slowly. "We have heard of it – rumours and mumblings in the tavern houses for the most part. I've not seen the bodies the people speak of myself."

"Believe me, they're there," Dermin replied grimly. "The Shadow Thieves have made themselves a dangerous enemy; that much is certain. But what troubles me is how little we know of this rival guild. They are too powerful to have arisen so quickly without us knowing about it, and a new player now could turn the political landscape of this region on its head."

"Are things truly that bad?" She asked and her old tutor sighed.

"Perhaps not. The Shadow Thieves are not losing the war – but they are not winning it either."

"Is the Harper Council considering throwing support behind the upstarts, shifting the balance away from the Shadow Thieves?" she asked. "As I understand it, the Shadowmaster is no friend of the Harpers."

"I am not sure I would like the alternative," he said finally, his mouth twisting slightly as he considered the idea. "And without knowing more it would be impossible to choose sides. For now at least, we shall wait and see how this conflict plays out. But I did not wish to see you only to discuss politics, Jaheira. Tell me honestly now, how are you faring?"

She hesitated, tempted to lie but Dermin would see through a feeble "I'm fine" in an instant. "I am coping," she said at length.

Dermin's face was sympathetic. "How did he die?" he asked quietly.

She rose abruptly and walked over to the window. It overlooked the docks and she stared out at the gulls wheeling and swooping with careless abandon above the white sails of the trading ships. For one moment she wished she could be one of them. The grief she carried in her heart was so unbearably heavy – what it would be like to leave it all on land and feel that exhilarating, effortless sense of freedom? To know nothing of husbands and their murderers, nothing but the salt air, the sea breeze and the sky.

"Jaheira?" Dermin was behind her now, his soft voice calling her back to earth.

"We were captured," she began, her own voice deadly quiet. "Outside the Gate. We were to travel north but we scarcely made it a mile down the Trade Way before..." she swallowed the lump in her throat, found her composure. "He tortured him, Dermin. His body... the things that he must have endured... I..." When she felt his hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her, her temper roiled somewhere deep within. She shook it off roughly. "I do not want your pity!" she snapped, whirling to face him.

"What _do_ you want, then?" His face was impossible to read.

Jaheira took a deep breath. "I want him dead," she said with a fierceness that surprised even her. Gods, it felt good to say out loud! "I want Irenicus dead and I want it to be by my hand. I want to watch as his wretched life flees his wretched, wretched body and I want him to die painfully in the knowledge that he bought his end with my husband's life. I want vengeance."

Dermin was silent for a long moment as he held her gaze. If her quiet fury had disturbed him, he gave no indication of it. Finally, he nodded slowly and Jaheira recognized the flicker of anger in the depths of his careful, vigilant eyes.

"You shall have it." His voice was hard with resolve. "_We_ shall have it."

Jaheira's eyes widened and she struggled to keep the giddy hope Dermin's words had stirred in her from showing. "The Harpers will aid in this?"

"If I have anything to say in the matter," he replied. "I will not see this grave injustice, this _insult_ go unpunished, Jaheira. Khalid was not just one of us; he was a good man and a good friend. He deserves more. But," his mouth twisted unpleasantly around the word.

"But...?"

Dermin sighed and refilled his glass. "Doubtless, Quinn has told you that the region lacks a Herald at this time?" When she nodded he continued. "The reason this is so is our limited resources. We have few agents in Athkatla, fewer still in the rest of Amn. Every man and woman is needed to keep watch on the power factions here in the city, especially if the thieves' war escalates."

"You are going to tell me that the Harpers cannot divert the resources to ascertain the location of where Irenicus is being held, are you not?" she finished for him bitterly, but Dermin shook his head.

"Truth is, my dear, that decision is not within my power to make," he informed her. "A fact which brings us to a... potential thorn. Galvarey is in charge of our house here."

Her look was incredulous. "If this is a jest, Dermin, it is a poor one."

"It is no jest."

"Galvarey? _Galvarey?_ The man is a hot-headed imbecile! How is it possible he leads the Harpers in Athkatla?"

"It was the Council's decision, and I would remind you that not everyone in the Harpers shares your prejudice against him."

"Well, the Council has clearly traded good sense away for foolishness!" Jaheira rejoined, pressing her fingers to her forehead. "Silvanus help all of us."

"It may not be such a problem for us. I will do all I can, all that is within my power. As it is, I am confident I can persuade him that you needn't be reassigned..."

Her head whipped around, her face a combination of shock and horror. "_Reassigned?_ Why on _earth_ would I be reassigned?"

Dermin blinked. "Your mission was to investigate the source of the iron crisis. That mission has come to an end... Jaheira, surely you realised the Harpers would have need of you elsewhere now that Anchev has been slain?"

"I... I never thought," she sank down in the nearby chair, feeling her temper drain away uselessly. How could she have been so _stupid_? Of course the Harpers would have plenty of operations that would benefit from an agent of her skills and experience! Why would they let her roam the countryside with Isabel when they had need of her elsewhere?

"Dermin, please. You must allow me to remain with Isabel's company. The Harpers must allow me to pursue Khalid's killer. This is more important than my –"

"Your duty?" Dermin finished with an arched brow. "Be careful with your words, my former student. Galvarey would be quick to use them against you. As would others."

She squared her jaw stubbornly. "I cannot pretend I am capable of that which I am not, Dermin."

He snorted softly. "Then it is fortunate you won't have to. As I said, I can fix this so you may remain where you are. You have my word on it."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"You will, of course, need to check in regularly with us. The leaders will require detailed reports on your progress, on Isabel Wren and her company for as long as you pursue this matter – and with a good deal more regularity than you did in the Heartlands."

She hesitated. "You wish me to report on Isabel?"

"Of course. You travel with her, do you not?"

"Yes, but..." The entire conversation has taken an unexpected, uneasy turn. "I am not sure I understand the Harpers' interest."

"Don't be coy, Jaheira. She is a Bhaalspawn, one who has lived most of her life under Harper protection. Naturally we have an interest."

"It would feel as if I were spying on her."

Dermin placed his glass upon the table delicately "Jaheira, please understand my position. You have asked me to go to the Harper leaders and ask them that you be allowed to follow your own personal vendetta, to ally yourself and work with those who are not Harpers and do not represent Harper interests. Moreover, you have not only asked for our sanction to do so, but you have requested that we actively aid and support you in it. This is not an easy sell. The only way I can get Galvarey and the others to agree is to make the pursuit of Irenicus a Harper objective and assign you to it. Which means you have to report thoroughly and regularly." He reached over and laid a placating hand on her forearm. "This is a _good_ thing. The more we know the more effective our own investigations into the Cowled Wizards will be. The Wizards keep the secret of their prison close to their breasts; any advantage will be invaluable if we are to pry it from their greedy fingers. Isabel has a friend trapped there too, has she not? This will help her as much as it helps you."

It made sense. She knew everything Dermin had said made perfect, rational sense. And still, her gut squirmed at the thought of having to inform upon a friend and comrade.

"Gorion would not have approved of this," she tried.

"Gorion kept the Council appraised of Isabel's progress her entire life. This is _precisely_ the course of action he would have approved of." He leaned forward. "Jaheira, this is the price. If you want to get Irenicus, this is the price."

She closed her eyes and saw Khalid's face. And when she opened them she saw Dermin's. Two men she loved – in different ways, but loved nonetheless. Both loved and trusted implicitly. And both now sang to her the same song.

"What must I do?"

xxx

"So you think we ought to go to Trademeet?" Isabel asked later that evening as the group sat around what had become 'their table' in the inn. She spoke between bites, as did the others, shovelling in forkfuls of stew as they plotted their course for the coming weeks.

"Their representative told us the town's situation is dire. There are a great many people in Trademeet that could use our help," Keto replied.

"What exactly is the 'town's situation'? Please tell me at least one of you asked," she said with a sideways glance at Angelo. He rolled his eyes in reply.

"So little faith you have in us, Isabel. For shame."

"We did," Keto interrupted, leaning forward. "From all accounts the town has been besieged by – this is going to sound a little whacky – _nature_." She said the word a little breathlessly, almost as if the bard could smell the sort of story she could make out of it.

"What she means is druids," Angelo said when Isabel's eyebrows shot up. "The local grove appears to have revolted against the town, though no one knows why."

"That does sound a little... 'whacky'," Yoshimo observed, smiling a little at the bard's choice of words.

"Jaheira?" Isabel asked, glancing over to the druid amongst them. Her hands were folded on the table, her forehead creased in a slight frown. She seemed tired today, ever since she had returned to the inn that evening. But then, Isabel thought with an inward sigh, who didn't have good reason to be exhausted these days?

"I cannot fathom a good reason why a grove would openly attack another settlement. Not without serious provocation at least."

"The representative said he knew of no reason why they might have attacked," Keto said. "He indicated that relations between the druids and the townspeople had always been civil until this."

"He could just be attempting to save face," Yoshimo pointed out. "It is difficult to make a convincing case for others to intervene when the town itself might be at fault."

"True," Isabel mused, leaning backwards thoughtfully. "Bears thinking about." Angelo recognized that distant look in her dark eyes and frowned. That look meant she was intrigued. That look meant _trouble_.

"I don't think it's such a good idea," he said and she raised an eyebrow.

"What's your objection?"

"Likely is, there's no gold in it. The merchant families in Trademeet might be powerful, but they are of new money, not old. If this siege is everything they say it is, it will have emptied their coffers."

"We don't _know_ that!" Keto protested. "And it can't always be about money. There are people, _real_ people there that don't stand a hope unless someone intervenes soon."

"And who appointed us the favourite patrons of lost and impossible causes?" he shot back. "I am all for helping folk out, but if I'm sticking my neck out for a fellow I damn well expect to be compensated for the favour. That is why we are _mercenaries_, and not, shall we say, philanthropists."

"You have no soul," she accused.

"I know. I traded it for my coat." Out of the corner of his eye he fancied he saw Isabel bite back a grin.

"That is so very difficult to believe," Jaheira remarked dryly. "For whatever my opinion is worth, I would like to investigate this matter further. It is... troubling."

"All the more reason to steer clear of it," Angelo said stubbornly.

Isabel smiled at him wickedly. "Come now, Angelo. Where is your sense of adventure?"

"Tucked firmly between my sense of self-preservation and my own Gods-blessed common sense!" Her smile only grew wider and he threw up his hands in exasperation. "Fine," he muttered under his breath and made his way across to the bar where an obliging Samuel was already pouring him a drink.

"You, Isabel, are an unabashed contrarian," he informed her when she joined him at the bar moments later. "The only reason you're even considering this absurd venture is because I think it's a bad idea. Just like you bought into Keto's theory about who the Skinner was just because the rest of us disagreed with you and you fancied the idea of proving us wrong."

"I won't deny that there is a small part of me that rather enjoys the fact that this annoys you," she said, her lips still curved in a pert smile as she sipped delicately from her own glass.

"That is very childish, Isabel."

"You take your fun where you find it," she replied and he rolled his eyes. No one could say that Isabel Wren had not proved herself, but it was during moments like these that he was reminded how young she really was. "But that is not the reason I am considering going." He glanced back at her to see her dark eyes were no longer laughing.

"Here are five things we _do_ know. One," she began counting off on her fingers, "we need to find serious work and we need to find it soon. Two, this town is in trouble and in need of some assistance, assistance we could very well provide. Three, I do not believe that just because there is no immediate promise of coin that we would come away empty-handed if we went. Even if the trading families _have_ beggared themselves – and that, by the way, is a big 'if' – gratitude takes many forms, many of which could prove profitable. It is not a small thing to have a township as influential as Trademeet owe us one." Isabel now put her hand on his arm, forcing him to look her in the eye. "And four," she added more softly, "there _are_ real people in Trademeet and in the groves. People who really do sound like they could use a few patrons of lost and impossible causes right now."

"You said 'five'. What is the fifth thing we know?"

The grin was back. "I think you'll like this one."

"'You're the chief?'"

"There's a clever lad."

The look he gave her could only be described as 'withering'. "You would drive a man to the brink of madness, you do realise that?"

Isabel patted his arm kindly. "Gorion used to tell me the same thing." She finished her drink and fished out a crown for the bartender. "And just so you know, I am not the only contrarian around here."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You. You went from not being thrilled with the idea to arguing emphatically against it within the space of minutes, all because you noticed that I was curious." He stared at her openly.

"That is ridiculous!"

"Like I said," she grinned. "I'm not the only contrarian."

Angelo heard Samuel chuckle behind him as he watched the girl return to the others. "Ye've met your match there sonny," he said merrily. Angelo spared the stout halfling a glance before draining what was left of his whiskey.

"I need some air."

The nights were getting cooler and crisper as he lit his pipe and leaned back against the brick wall of the narrow lane behind the inn. The lane's only other occupant was one of the city's countless beggars, a sad, motley creature, who sat hunched over in the gutter singing an old sea shanty. _"Sing me a love song low and sweet, Cried the fair young maiden!"_ Gaunt eyes flicked up briefly at Angelo as he inhaled, and then they dismissed him just as quick. _"Well hurry before I break yon door, for I'll puff 'n fuss 'n and rant 'n roar."_

They would ignore each other, and that suited Angelo just fine. He took a long drag and blew a puff of smoke up toward the stars, thinking.

How was it that this slip of a girl, barely twenty years old, put him so easily on the back foot? He could never decide if he found her more exasperating or admirable. She was undoubtedly the most stubborn, hard-headed, difficult, compassionate... and why did he all of a sudden _care_ where they went or what they did when they got there? For most of his adult life he had been adept at following orders without question. Hells, he had often _prided_ himself on it! How was it that he had followed Sarevok up to and over the brink, but could not keep his accursed tongue behind his teeth when it came to Isabel Wren?

"_I'll spin you yarns 'n tell you lies, I'll drink yer wine 'n eat yer pies."_

Perhaps he had simply outlived too many masters to substitute his own judgement for another's as easily as he once would have. _Ha!_ _What a joke that would be, if after thirty six years Angelo Dosan had finally grown a spine?_ No, he thought as he took another drag. More likely it was just that she did not give a damn if he argued with her. Hells, she was probably right. He _was_ being contrary and for the sheer simple fact that for the first time in a long time he _could_.

"_I'll kiss yer cheek 'n black yer eyes."_

_Might as well enjoy it_, he thought gazing up at the night sky. And he did, he could admit – to himself at least.

Still didn't change the fact that the whole Gods-damned thing was maddening. _She_ was maddening.

He let his eyes close, allowing himself a minute to enjoy the stolen minute of quiet.

_Quiet. Just a few minutes of blessed quiet and – _Angelo's eyes snapped open. Why was it quiet all of a sudden? Alert now, he pushed himself off the wall and turned toward the vacant spot where the beggar had been, swallowing uneasily as his eyes scanned the deserted lane. _Where is that damned vagrant and the next line of his damned ditty?_

He heard the telltale sound of steel being drawn behind him and spun around just in time to avoid the near fatal blow of the beggar's blade, the knife slicing clean through the muscle of his upper arm instead.

_Stupid Dosan!_ He cursed himself as he tossed his pipe aside and skipped back from the beggar's second lunge. _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! This is how it happens – you let your guard down for half a blink and the Grey Lord taps your shoulder..._ The alley was too narrow for the sword at his hip to offer any real advantage and grimly, Angelo flicked out his own knife from his sleeve – he might be a fool, but at least he was not an unarmed fool. His bad arm throbbed and felt slick with blood, but there was no time to see how badly he'd been injured. There would be time enough for that later... maybe. What he was sure of however, was that his assailant was definitely no beggar.

He dodged, ducked, thrust, danced, all the while trying to hold some ground and knowing instinctively that he was being manoeuvred further and further back toward the wall behind him. In such close quarters, that would be a very, very bad thing. He needed to end this, and end it quickly.

As he ducked under his opponent's swing, he saw his chance. Feinting left, he came up and under, driving his knife into the would-be beggar's unprotected side. He gasped as Angelo then seized him and pivoted, using the momentum to hurl his assailant against the wall. The man crumpled against the brick, moaning. Blood blossomed between his fingers as he clutched at his wound.

Angelo wasted no time. Coolly, he advanced upon his assailant, kicking aside the man's forgotten dagger without breaking his stride. The man in the gutter coughed, blood dribbling from his mouth. He was dying, and he well knew it.

"Well damn," he managed as Angelo knelt before him. "They said you was a tough son of a bitch. Shoulda listened."

"Who sent you?" Angelo demanded, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. "How did you find me?"

The assassin coughed again. "Got lucky, was all. Wasn't even gonna take the job, you see. You put the others on a right wild goose chase – those that didn't think you was dead thought you was headed east, not south. I came 'ere on me own and whadya know? Walk into the bar few nights past and I see you, plain as day and sharing a Gods-damned drink with Isabel of Candlekeep of all people! Thought I was going outta my mind, I did."

Angelo shook him roughly. "I didn't ask for your goddamn life story. Who sent you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, mate. You know the business. Don't ask names, don't tell 'em." He coughed again. "Don't 'spose you have any brandy?"

Angelo ignored the request and shoved him against the wall again. The man groaned as his head hit the brick with an audible crack. "Give me some answers and I'll get you all the fucking brandy you like. Now tell me, who wants me killed?"

"I told you! I don't fucking well know, alright? I didn't take the job, just figured when I saw you I could cash it in anyways. You're the one they want dead, mate. You tell _me_ who you pissed off so goddamn much... ah Gods, it hurts..."

His breath was coming out more and more ragged. Not long now. Angelo sighed with disgust and let go of his assassin's shirt. The man was a hack, he judged, but an honest one. An assassin worth his salt would have done his research, at least learned who was offering the contract if for no other reason than to ensure they would be paid. This man might have made a living off the trade, but he was no professional. He didn't know a damn thing.

"Come on, mate. How 'bout a last drink for a dying man?"

Angelo shrugged and tossed him his flask. "Who else knows I'm here?" he asked as he watched him gulp down the brandy. He closed his eyes with a contented smile – or as contented a smile a person slowly bleeding out can manage anyhow.

"Just me. Like I said, 'twas lucky. Or mayhap unlucky, if you look at it another way..." His voice trailed off as his jaw went slack and body slumped forward. Angelo waited until he was fully gone, then leaned forward and plucked back his hip flask from the assassin's lifeless fingers.

He rose, a little unsteady as the world spun. Swearing under his breath, he checked the wound on his arm. It was a clean cut at least, but it was deep and would need a weave and for that he would have to go to one of the temple wards, or else explain to the druid and everyone else how he had come by it.

_There's a wonderful idea,_ he grumbled to himself as he stooped to retrieve his discarded pipe. _Hey everyone, forgot to mention it before, but I am kind of a wanted man. Nothing to fret about, just, you know, being hunted by assassins and bounty hunters. No big deal, right?_

She would kill him.

He relit his pipe, inhaled deep. _You started down this road, Dosan. You chose it, chose her. And damn it if you aren't going to see this through like the sad, worthless, craven piece of shit you've always been._

He allowed himself one last long drag in the shadow of the inn and then he walked down the lane without looking back.


	13. The Way East

**12 – The Way East**

"Get up you lazy sod, we don't want to be late!" Isabel called as she rapped again on the bard's door. "The caravan won't wait for us forever!" She pressed her ear to the wood and heard what sounded suspiciously like someone groaning into their pillow.

" 'nother minute," came the muffled reply.

"You said _that_ fifteen minutes ago!" When she didn't get a response, Isabel sighed. "Fine, you leave me no choice." She turned and leaned back comfortably against Keto's door, folded her arms and began knocking her heel loudly against it. _Tap. Tap. Tap._ Isabel smirked. She gave the bard five minutes, no more.

The noise might not have roused Keto just yet, but it did bring others into the hallway. Jaheira stepped out from her rooms, her pack already slung over her shoulder and nursing a cup of tea. She shook her head wryly when Isabel grinned at her.

"This seems familiar. Although in times past _you_ were on the other side of that door."

"Which is why I can attest to the fact this works like a charm," she laughed. "Especially since she's nursing a hangover."

Jaheira barely managed to suppress a chuckle. "You always did have a wicked streak."

"Just trying to be helpful," the girl winked. "You are all packed? No, of course you are – forgot who I was talking to for a moment there."

"You appear to be in remarkably good spirits this morning," the druid commented, observing Isabel's rosy cheeks and the good-humoured twinkle in her brown eyes. Isabel smiled – she _was_ in high spirits. Inexplicably, she was filled with a rare almost giddy optimism at the idea of being on the road again, to actually be _doing_ something. If she had to put words to the feeling, she'd say it was something close to being drunk on hope. Some days it felt that Imoen was an entire world beyond reach and she could do nothing but turn circles. This was not one of those days.

Yesterday had been something of a furore as she had rallied their group to prepare for their excursion to Trademeet. Supplies for the road ahead had to be purchased, weapons and armour cleaned and readied, travel arrangements finalised. Armin Conroy, the fiery town representative that Keto and Angelo had met in the Council buildings, had proved surprisingly useful and managed to secure them passage with a convoy of three merchant caravans as far east as Esmeltaran. It was an unbelievable stroke of good fortune – since their company was providing an armed escort for the merchant convoy, Armin had even been able to negotiate payment. The journey _there_ at least, would not see them out of pocket.

_Beat that with a stick_, she smirked to herself as she remembered Angelo's complaints that the trip in of itself would be a waste of coin.

"You must be happy too though," she said as she continued to tap her boot insistently against the bard's door. "You are always itching to get out of the city."

"It will be no small blessing to see green underfoot, and the leaves and the trees around," she agreed. "I admit I have grown somewhat weary of cobblestones and brick. Give me good untilled soil and I shall be content."

"Honestly, I'm just looking forward to a change in scenery – hello you two!" Isabel interrupted herself as Angelo and Yoshimo both stepped from their rooms clad in dusty, well-worn leathers and stared at her with bemused faces.

"Good morning, Isabel," Yoshimo said with a barely constrained smile.

"That sound is extremely annoying," Angelo remarked by way of greeting, nodding at her boot.

"Well, that's kind of the idea – oh!" She yelped as Keto finally jerked the door open and Isabel fell backwards, landing ungracefully on her rear. The bard glared down at her.

"Serves you bloody well right!" she snapped grumpily. Isabel could hear the others chuckling in the hall, but even a sore behind wasn't going to dampen her mood.

"Hey, this was all your idea, remember?" she said as she scrambled to her feet. She regarded the unsympathetic and dishevelled Keto for a moment and then glanced around at her tiny room. "Wait a minute," she said her face darkening slightly with dismay. "You haven't even packed!"

"Give me a minute would you? My head already feels like it's been cleaved in two – I just need to remember where I left my higher brain function."

"Sobriety sets in at a glacial pace, I see," Yoshimo remarked with obvious amusement.

"Do not start with me thief," Keto replied tartly, whirling around to point her finger at him. Unruffled, Yoshimo simply walked up to her and tweaked her nose affectionately.

"You are very adorable when you are angry," he said smiling.

"And I suppose you think I am meant to find that charming?"

"Yes," he replied as she pouted. "Come now, I will help you pack. We will be ready to leave in ten minutes," he called out to Isabel as he followed a grumbling Keto into her room.

"Well," Isabel said, tucking her hands into her pockets and grinned broadly at her two remaining companions. "Ready to go be heroes?"

xxx

Armin Conroy reined in his chestnut mare at the crest of the hill, just above where the River Road turned into the long road that carved its way east across the country. He looked back, his gaze following the serpentine river down to the city nestled at its mouth. She sparkled triumphantly in the high noon sun, a proud western beauty promising untold wealth, happiness and the fulfilment of every dream you ever held. She was Athkatla, City of Coin, the pride and jewel of all Amn. _And a cold, unfeeling bitch,_ he thought contemptuously and spat in the dust before her. _The bards always leave that part out, don't they? They don't mention the petty politics, or that lives are weighed in coin and "good business" means stabbing a man in the back and getting away with the deed. Where in the songs did they ever tell you that in a city ruled by merchants, a man's first allegiance was to his purse and what did it matter then, where his second or third or fourth lay?_

_And more the fool was I_, he thought bitterly. _To think I could go shopping for honourable men in a city where you can sell your conscience for a copper and a pint._

With one last parting glare, Armin turned back east and nudged his mare forward. Although they were coming late into the autumn season, the day favoured them with a rare, cloudless sky that stretched all the way to the horizon. Beneath that clear expanse of azure blue, the brightly coloured tops of the trader caravans waited by the side of the road, and the brisk breeze carried on it the scent of horses and the laughter of children.

As he approached, one of the caravan heads waved him over. Zakary was the master of one of three trader families which made up the convoy, a shrewd businessman and Armin felt, a good and fundamentally decent man. Over the years in his capacity as Logan's lawyer, he had negotiated deals with almost all of the regular traders who came through Trademeet. He knew them all by name. He knew the names of their children. Zakary was more than a sometime trading partner however; Armin felt he could count the caravan master a friend.

"Zakary," he nodded at the merchant as he dismounted. "Why have we stopped?"

"Conroy! My friend, I apologise for the delay," Zakary said with a rueful smile. "One of the wagon wheels has slipped; my boys are trying to repair it as we speak."

"Should it take very long? We are fortunate with the weather – I would hate to see our luck go to waste. It is still another two days travel to Trademeet."

Zakary smoothed his moustache. "Easy, Conroy. You will be home soon enough."

"I do not suppose I could still convince you to return with me?" He knew the answer already, but he could not resist another pass, however futile.

"You never do give it up, do you?" the merchant sighed. "Armin, we are both businessmen. We both know this is a bad deal. Tell me honestly, what would you do in my shoes?"

"I would come," Armin replied without hesitation. "I may not command the same price for my goods as I would in Esmeltaran, but I _would_ have the gratitude of an influential trading waypoint. Zakary, you are concerning yourself with the immediate danger of the present, but you should be looking to the future. My Lord Coprith would owe you personally. _Trademeet_ would owe you. That is the kind of business capitol you could not hope to gain six months from now."

Zakary smiled, but it was the sympathetic smile of a man who had long ago made up his mind. "You were always a good lawyer, Conroy," he said. "But I will not do it. A man cannot spend his capitol if he is dead and I will not risk the lives of my caravan, the lives of my girls for the promise of coin. I am sorry, Armin, but Trademeet is cursed. I would not take my family to that place, not for all the wealth in Amn."

Armin sighed. "I know, Zakary. It is one of the reasons why I respect you as I do. And still..." his voice trailed off unhappily.

"Take heart, friend. You have brought back saviours – I am sure they will free your town of its troubles and soon this time will be but a distant memory."

Armin absently stroked the side of his mare's neck. For generations his family had traded in horseflesh, and the gentle tempered beast was one of his. She was perhaps the only thing from his old life he had kept. The family business had not been for him, not since his fifteenth birthday, not since the day he had met Logan. Logan Coprith and Armin Conroy – what a pair they had made at fifteen! He smiled at the memories of them sneaking carafes of apple cider and drinking away their teenage troubles in the orchards. Just the two of them, talking about the local girls or fighting a mock duel over who would get to ask Lily Lurraxol to the Greengrass dance. They both had siblings of course – he himself had two other brothers – but Logan was the brother he chose. When Logan took up the Lord Mayor's office, there was no question that Armin would serve as his seneschal. For nigh on thirty years, Armin had never failed in anything Logan had asked of him.

Not until now.

_Saviours indeed!_ Armin thought of the misfit band of mercenaries he had found to rescue his home. The sum total of all his efforts and labours in the capital was a girl-bard, a thief, a sellsword, a _druid_ for heaven's sake! Not to mention that they were led by a girl who was young enough to be his daughter. How these five could stand up to, let alone overcome the untold might of a druid grove was beyond him.

Logan had sent him to Athkatla to bring home an army. For all he knew, these five would wind up throwing their lot in with the druids.

One of Zakary's young girls tore past them, startling him from his thoughts. Another, Neria, was close on her sister's heels, her hands clamped about the neck of what looked unmistakably like a sitar. Zakary caught the girl by the scruff of her neck.

"Hey! What is this?" he tapped the instrument. Neria gave him an imperious, all-knowing look that only a seven year old can be capable of.

"It's a _sitar_, Papa," she said, stressing the word as if she thought her father quite stupid.

"I can see that it's a _sitar_, Neria. What I _don't_ know is why you're holding it."

"My apologies, sir," interrupted a light voice. Armin looked up to see the pretty young bard, Keto Riven, walking toward them. An apologetic smile touched her lips. "The sitar is mine. I told Neri she could borrow it for the afternoon."

"Keto's been teaching me!" Neria announced proudly. "I'm really good, Papa! I'm _miles_ better than Caty! I can already play the first two chords of _The Maid of Silverymoon_, want to hear?" Promptly, she grasped the neck of the instrument awkwardly with her fingers and dragged her left hand inelegantly over the strings. The sitar made a semi-tuneful twang and the bard behind her winced.

"See how good I am, Papa? Please don't make me give it back! Pretty, pretty, _pretty_ please?" Zakary cast a helpless glance at Keto before raising his hands in acquiescence. Neria whooped and ran off, hopefully to practice somewhere out of earshot.

"I really do apologise if I overstepped," Keto said, a little ruefully. "She begged me with those big doe eyes and I am afraid I was quite undone."

"Aye, I know the look," Zakary muttered. "I give thanks to Shaundakul each day that her mother is immune. In any case, I will leave you two – I am sure you have matters of import to discuss and it seems it will take another hour to fix the wagon, so I'm letting the others know we might as well break for lunch." He nodded to them both in turn and left in the same direction as his daughters. Keto smiled pleasantly up at him.

"Why don't you walk with me, Master Conroy?" she asked courteously. "I'm going to see Isabel, if you would like to speak with her about Trademeet?"

Armin did not especially want to speak with the bard's odd young leader just then, but he supposed it could not hurt and he would have felt rude refusing the girl. So he accepted and together they wound their way through the caravan wagons. She _was_ an enchanting little thing, he admitted to himself. But he doubted the druids of the grove would be felled by a pretty girl batting her eyelashes.

"We are not what you were hoping for, were we?" she said suddenly, as if she could read his thoughts.

"What? No – I mean, not –" She held up a hand to stop him.

"It's okay," she said, her voice clearly showing that she was not offended by either his stammering or the truth of her statement. "I heard you in the Council building; I imagine five mercs must be a far cry from the might of an Amnish garrison."

"I am sorry, Miss Riven, I am sure you are very capable –" he began again, but she started chuckling before he could finish.

"Once more with feeling mate," she laughed. "I understand. Trust me, if there is one emotion I can recognise, it's disappointment. But I just wanted to tell you, well, don't write us off just yet. She may not look like much, but Isabel has done some pretty incredible things. She might surprise you, if you give her the chance."

"She will have to, Miss Riven," he replied. "Whether I like it or not, right now your company might be the only hope Trademeet has left."

As they rounded the corner of one of the caravans, Armin saw that there was a small gathering ahead. Curiosity getting the better of him, he and the bard approached and saw two of her fellows standing in the middle of a loosely formed semi-circle of traders and onlookers. Their leader, Wren, was tying up her untidy auburn hair in a quick bun, whilst one of her men rolled his shoulders. _Dosan_, he thought, finally placing the name. He was a tall, hard-looking fellow and his eyes never left Wren. He pushed the sleeves of his shirt above his elbows, revealing intricately tattooed skin and corded muscle.

"Staves or blades?" Wren called out.

"Staves." The voice belonged to the druid, Armin realised. The half-elf stood only a few feet away, leaning casually against her own quarter staff. "You need the practice," she added dryly. Armin glanced at her warily. She had given him no cause to be suspicious, but he could not help but worry about her. The druids of the grove had given no warning of their intent, and they were of a kind, were they not? She was raised with the same teachings, the same philosophies. The same loyalties. He had never heard of a druid mercenary before and he doubted it was due to mere coincidence. Could this one really raise her hand against her own for the promise of a reward? He doubted it. She did not have the look of a woman driven by the pursuit of gold.

Neither did Wren.

_Yes,_ Armin thought as someone tossed Wren and Dosan a practice staff each. _There is something _more_ there, beneath the surface. These folk are not ordinary mercs._

Dosan caught his mid air, twirled it expertly in his large hands. "Just as well," he remarked in the husky voice of a man who enjoyed his pipe and his whiskey. "I can't say I am in any great hurry to cross steel with you again, Isabel."

She grinned. "You remember the last time then?"

His voice was very dry. "Funnily enough." He raised his staff in a salute. "You ready?"

Isabel responded by whipping her own staff up in a lightning fast attack. Soon the _click clack_ of wood hitting wood filled the air.

Armin watched with a strange sort of fascination as the pair sparred. They wove around each other, striking, feinting, parrying, evading. They were partners in a surreal dance; brutal and deadly if it were not for show. The traders who gathered round to watch whooped and yelled their encouragement, the men placing more than few wagers on the outcome. Yoshimo, the easygoing Kara-Turan, leaned against the caravan beside them.

"Why staves?" Armin heard Keto murmur to him. "Both Isabel and Angelo are fencers. Why not spar with swords?"

"Basics, my dear. Before a warrior is ever allowed to touch a blade, he has to master the staff first," the thief explained. "It is one of the basic tenets of sword lore and the warrior's craft. It is right up there with learning how to fall down properly."

"There is a proper etiquette to falling over?" the bard asked, amused.

"Like you would not imagine." He nudged the driver standing beside him. "Ten silver crowns on Dosan. What do you say, my man?" The driver glanced at the thief and then at the two fighters just as Isabel managed to land a nasty blow on Angelo's shoulder.

"It's your money mate," he said and shook on it.

"I plan on it, rest assured."

Armin did not know how the Kara-Turan could sound so confident. Despite the obvious differences in size and age and sex, Dosan and Wren seemed to be evenly matched, neither one gaining any real advantage over the other. Wren was wickedly fast, but Dosan was holding his own and did not look like he was tiring any time soon. Keto expressed similar views to her companions.

"She's sloppy," the druid remarked. "She keeps dropping her left shoulder."

"Still, she's so fast," Armin found himself saying. Yoshimo glanced at him and shrugged.

"You should see her with her sword," he said wryly. "She _is_ fast. And she is opportunistic – she sees a weakness, a flaw, she goes for it. No hesitation. But Dosan, he has the surer strategy. Watch the way he moves. He knows he cannot match her for speed, so he is thinking a few moves ahead. Wait for it... there." Armin watched, fascinated, as Wren paused half a second, blinking. Yoshimo had been right – Dosan _had_ been thinking ahead. He had baited her, manoeuvred her so that the sun was shining directly in her eyes.

"Clever lad," the thief murmured with approval. Dosan wasted no time taking advantage of his newfound edge. He struck high, forcing Wren to raise her staff to protect her face. But even Armin could see that her block was angled awkwardly and Dosan was able to sweep his staff down and under, disarming her in one swift move. Then, with a second sweep he knocked her feet from under her. Wren hit the dusty ground with an audible _thump_ and to the chorus of half a dozen groans and cheers. Yoshimo's unlucky driver scowled as he tossed the grinning thief his winnings.

Armin watched the two mercenaries. Another man in her position might have hurled insults or demanded a rematch or accused the other of cheating. Not Wren. The girl simply broke into a broad grin and began to laugh as she lay staring up at the man who had knocked her into the dirt in front of her companions and some dozen traders and drivers. Dosan returned her grin and reached down, hauling her to her feet. She brushed off the dust from her trousers as they approached, accepting her flask from the druid and taking a long draught when she came to stop before them.

"You have skills, Dosan," she laughed, wiping her mouth.

Dosan massaged his shoulder, still grinning. "I could say the same for you. Gods, don't ever let me agree to a "quick sparring session" with you again, chief."

"No promises." She raised her eyes to meet his own. "I hope you enjoyed the show, Master Conroy."

"It was impressive," he replied, meaning every word. Perhaps Keto was right; there was more to this girl than met the eye. The onlookers were dispersing now and Wren nodded to her companions, a quiet dismissal. She poked the thief as he passed for "betting against the boss," and as the two of them were left in privacy, she leaned back against the caravan and folded her arms across her chest.

"So," she began without preamble. "You have concerns about the mission or my company?"

He raised his eyebrows, struck by how much older she seemed just then. _No beating around the bush with this one,_ he thought. That was fine; he could play it her way. "Quite honestly? Both."

She nodded, her dark eyes neutral. "Lay them on me. If you are having a change of heart, I would rather hear about it here and now, and not when my party is a two day's ride from Athkatla."

"I am not reconsidering you, Miss Wren," Armin said firmly. "But I do have concerns. I am not sure you fully appreciate the extent of Trademeet's situation or the danger presented by her enemies. My home has been under assault for weeks at the hands of the druids. Weeks, Miss Wren. The caravans have stopped coming, our fields and orchards are left to rot. With food so scarce, I fear the people will begin to riot and Trademeet will tear herself apart from within."

"How much longer do you believe the town can hold out?"

Armin spread his hands. "Who can say? I have been gone more than a week and a week to a starving man is an eternity. Whatever is to be done, it must be done quickly."

Wren pursed her lips. "I need to know – has the mayor or the town done _anything_ that might explain why this has happened?"

He felt his hackles rise in defence of his home, but he checked his tongue. It was not an unfair question. "Not that I am aware of," he answered in a clipped tone. "And the druids have not responded to any plea to parley. I have no idea why they attacked after so long a peace between us."

"Jaheira thought it extremely odd behaviour for a grove," she commented.

"It is _understandable_ she would be inclined to defend them," he remarked through his teeth. Wren's head snapped up, her eyes flashing with anger.

"There is no question, _none_ as to Jaheira's loyalty," she snapped. "I trust her with my life. I trust her with _your_ life. Her word is above reproach."

"You can tell me with all certainty, beyond _any_ shadow of a doubt, that if she is placed in a situation where she must choose between fulfilling the mission and her fellows, she will follow your word? In all certainty?"

"First off; _we're_ her fellows. Secondly, if what you are saying about these druids is true then Jaheira has an even greater vested interest in seeing it ended than any of us. Fanciful as the idea may seem to you, Master Conroy, but not all druids are psychopaths bent on perfecting the art of siege warfare with acorns and squirrels."

"These are my people. _My _fellows. I do not know you from Eve, Miss Wren. In two days, I will lead you through the town's gates and for all I _know_, you could be worse than the enemy I will have brought you to protect us from. You do not get to begrudge me for trying to protect them."

Wren stared at him for a long, hard moment. "As I protect mine," she finally said, letting her arms drop to her sides. "I respect your advocacy for your people, Conroy, and I know that I was not your ideal choice for what we will face. But I promise you, I will do everything in my power to help your people. And I keep my promises."

He searched her face for any sign of insincerity or disingenuousness. He had spent his life brokering trade deals – he knew when a man was playing him false. "For all our sakes, I pray you keep this one," he said evenly, extending his hand. "And I think you should start calling me Armin, by the way."

Wren grasped his, her lips quirking in a small smile and all of a sudden she looked her age again. "Then you should call me Isabel."

He released her hand and straightened. "Isabel?"

"Armin?"

"That quip you made earlier – about squirrels and acorns? I've seen a squirrel attempt to chew his way through a woman's face while she lay in her bed sleeping. If I were you, I wouldn't discount the squirrels."


	14. The Hour of the Wolf

_Author's note: It's been a while, but here's the latest. There's a lot of exposition in the chapter that I just couldn't seem to get around, but hopefully it's still a good read :)_

**13 – The Hour of the Wolf**

_Angelo hurried down the street, one eye trained on the rapidly darkening sky overhead. The clouds were ominous; dark and heavy with the promise of a storm, and the wind howled like the vanguard to the tempest. He would have to move quickly if he was to make it to the Jane Street barracks in time. The Anchevs despised tardiness, and after all, she was waiting for him. If there was one woman to whom Captain Angelo Dosan would always keep his word, it was to Tamoko Narita._

_His footsteps were light and quick over the grey cobblestones as he turned the corner. The burgeoning storm was making him uneasy, as if it were some dark portent. Something else was coming, something more than the wind and the rain. He could feel it in his bones._

"_Gods cannot help you, Angelo."_

_The wind whipped at his coat, stinging his flesh and he picked up his pace. Seized by a fear he could not name he was now all but running. Hand on the latch of the barracks door, he swung it open, ducked inside and slammed it shut in the face of the storm._

_He blinked._

"_Mother?"_

_His mother glanced up at her only son for barely a second, before returning her attention to her sewing. There was no mistake, although she was much older than he remembered. Her pale skin was wrinkled now and hung loosely over her fine cheekbones. The small, dark eyes that had dismissed him so easily were harder than they had been in his youth. _

"_Mother, what are you doing here?" he pressed._

"_Ha. Perhaps the more astute question is what are _you_ doing here, my son?" The needle flashed in her hand, sharp movements that seemed to jar with the memory of a woman possessed with an innate sense of grace. She did not look up as she continued. "She's upstairs. Go. You are forever stepping over those who ever gave a damn, anyhow. Once more will not make a difference."_

_Angelo stared, trying to make sense of her words or the bitter scorn that coloured them. But he found he had no words to offer, and in their absence, all he could do was obey._

_He climbed the stairs of his childhood home, felt for the door and suddenly the world was tilting, shifting beneath him. _

_Angelo lay prone on the floor, weak as a newborn kitten. He stared up at the ceiling of a room he did not recognise, and yet, at once felt oddly familiar. So cold, he thought, shivering. The fire was banked low, and she sat beside him, her crow black hair falling around her face as she bandaged his wounds._

_Dimly, he realised that this was not a dream. He had been here before. This had already happened._

"_I thought I was dead," he croaked the words. She looked at him, eyes soft and sad._

"_You are not," she whispered, stroking his face. He caught her hand, held it there._

"_Why?"_

_A sudden crash. The shutters flew open and the world shifted again._

"_Why?" He knelt now under the stars outside his captain's tent, surrounded by soldiers who watched weary with shock and sorrow. Angelo had no eyes for them. His eyes were only for Esim's, wide open and glassy, staring back at him as he cradled the old soldier's head in his lap. Blood pooled from where the man had plunged his own sword into his belly. Angelo's hands were red with it._

_Death had never smelled so foul._

"_Why, Esim?" he asked his captain again, his voice thick. "Tell me why, you damned fool."_

_Faintly, he heard a dull roar and he dragged his eyes from Esim's face. His fellow soldiers stared back unblinkingly for a moment, and then, one by one, turned away to look northward. Angelo rose, stepping over Esim to see what it was that had so captured their attention. They began to march and he hastened to follow. The red earth of Sembia gave way to shifting streets of grey and shadow, an impossible maze of half-remembered roads travelled so long ago. He started to run, and the sound of her voice, just on the edge of hearing, ushered him forward._

_He stumbled into a sprawling market place – the Wide they called it. The rain had come, but the square was still choked with people. Angry, angry people. He knew what was coming, even as his blood went cold and the crowd roared again, jostling him forward into the press of bodies gathered there to see._

_It was Execution Day._

_He did not want to see. He did not want to be here. But he raised his chin and looked. He owed her at least that didn't he? To watch and bear witness?_

_She did not struggle. He was proud of her for that, though for the life of him he could not say why. He could not imagine walking up those steps, flanked by officers of the Fist before the seething mob so calmly. But then she and he had always been different like that. No, she was always dignified. Even in death._

"Angelo?" _Her voice whispered, uncertain. _"Angelo, it's time."

"Oh, Tam," he mumbled. _You don't deserve this fate. It shouldn't have to end like this. Not for you. It should be me up there. Never you._

_The herald, a true showman, read off the long list of her crimes for the crowd, hurling her many treasons and transgressions at her feet. Some of them were true, some not. A few of her alleged crimes even belonged to him. But to Angelo it seemed the only real treason Tamoko had ever committed was loving Sarevok Anchev._

_Hadn't they all been punished enough for that by now?_

"Angelo, wake up. You have to wake up."

_But I'm not dreaming, he thought bitterly, looking up at her. This is happening. This is real._

"_Tamoko Narita, you have been found guilty of high treason on all counts and a traitor's death is what you deserve!" The herald cried, his voice swelling with each word._

"No," he said, _struggling forward. He accidently knocked a cloaked man in the process. The brief look he cast Angelo was furious._

"Angelo!"

"_On this day, justice shall be served!"_

"No!"

"_On this day, the Gods shall know satisfaction for your crimes!"_

"No! Tam, please!" _The guards hustled her forward, looping the thick rope of the noose over her head._

"Angelo, it's not Tam. It's me, it's Isabel," _she insisted. But it _was_ her. She looked up over the crowd, her eyes searching the sea of faces until they found his. She smiled then, that sad smile of hers that seemed to say, "This was inevitable. How could we have ever thought otherwise?"_

"I'm so sorry, Tam, I'm sorry, forgive me..."

"Angelo! _Wake up!_"

"_On this day, you shall be hung by the neck until you are dead!" The crowd roared, and the wood finally gave way beneath her feet..._

"NO!" he gasped as his eyes snapped open and he lunged forward. He stared blankly at the face in front of him, scarce inches from his own. His breath was coming in ragged, shuddering gasps; cold sweat trickled down his spine.

"Angelo?" It was her voice, and yet it... wasn't? Still disoriented, he tried to shake the lingering shadows from his mind and focus on the woman's face. A slightly crooked nose, light freckles. Dark brown eyes boring into his, concerned. Auburn, not black. He breathed in her scent, a faint perfume of wood and leather and soap.

Slowly, recognition lit his eyes as they refocused on hers. "Isabel?" he said hoarsely.

Isabel nodded, her eyes never leaving his. "You okay?" she asked quietly. "Do you know where you are?"

He looked around – he was in the camp, of course, only a few miles from Trademeet. It was still night, the rest of their companions sound asleep in their tents, but he always preferred to sleep under the sky. The fire had burned down to the coals, the only light from the moon and stars shining above.

"Aye," he nodded slowly, his eyes adjusting to the light.

"Okay. You maybe want to let go of me now?" Isabel said gently. Confused, his eyes followed hers down to where he found his own hands tightly clenched around her wrists. His knuckles were white. Startled, he released her. Isabel's mouth quirked slightly and she rocked back on her heels, rubbing at the red marks his fingers had left on her skin.

"I couldn't wake you," she explained. "I was trying to get you up for the last watch, but you were dreaming. Nothing I said or did seemed to get through."

"The last watch. My turn." With each passing second he was more awake and feeling more and more foolish. Brusquely, he tossed aside the blankets and grabbed his blade.

"You can go back to sleep if you want," Isabel offered, watching him get up and take a seat under a nearby oak. "It's maybe only two more hours till dawn and I don't mind sitting another shift."

"I am fine, Isabel," he said more tersely than he would have liked. "Just go to bed."

"Are you sure? I really don't mind –"

"It's _fine_. Really."

"Alright," she shrugged and, pausing only to steal one of his blankets, came and sat down beside him.

"What are you doing?"

"Sitting watch with you," she yawned, settling herself against the old oak. "Keeping company. Solidarity and all that."

"For Ilmater's sake, Isabel! It was just a bad dream. I do not need you to coddle me."

"No coddling. And no arguing either."

Angelo glared at her in the darkness. He did not want her company. It was bad enough that she had seen him thrashing about in his sleep, caught in the grip of a nightmare like a child. Could she not just leave him be in peace? It had just been a dream. Granted, a very bad, very vivid dream – but a dream nonetheless. Nothing to get fussy over. _But it wasn't just a dream, was it?_ His treacherous mind whispered. _You can escape a nightmare in waking, but there's nowhere to hide from your past._

He did not want to think about it. He did not want to _think_. But the traitor voice in his head would not be drowned out by the silence, and their faces were still there, waiting for him in the night.

Their memory had left him weary beyond belief, and for a moment he glanced sideways at Isabel. She merely sat there beside him with the blanket she had stolen draped over her lap to ward off the cold. She did not speak; there were no offered words of sympathy, or worse yet, pity. He appreciated that at least. If her being there was not such an embarrassing reminder of what she had witnessed, he might even have been touched by it. Standing watch was a lonely business.

Surrendering, he finally sighed into his hands. "What did I say?" he asked gruffly.

"Do you really want to talk about it? I would have thought you'd been more for acting awkward for a few days and pretending like it never happened."

_Ilmater help me. _ "By sitting there you have rather neatly made that impossible for me, so would you just this once do me a favour?" he said irritably.

"You kept saying 'no', over and over, and apologising." It was impossible to tell from her voice what she was thinking. "You called me Tam."

_It was Isabel's voice, not Tamoko's. _Gods above and below, it was even worse than he imagined.

"Tamoko?" she asked hesitantly. Angelo merely nodded, unable to find the words. It was quiet for a time. "For me, it is usually Irenicus. Sometimes Khalid." He glanced up at her with surprise when she finally spoke. Isabel's smile was sad in the moonlight. "Always Imoen."

_So many ghosts in the night,_ he reflected, looking up at the sky and the swath of stars overhead. It was that darkest part of night, before the dawn. The hour of the wolf, Esim had liked to call it. A time when your eyes ached, but you were too tired to close them to everything that was not right in your life. When the silence of the world seemed to stretch on for an eternity and all you were left with were the whisperings of an unquiet mind and a heavy heart. An hour to relive every regret. Angelo thought he had been living in the hour of the wolf for a very long time.

"They executed her. They called her 'Sarevok's Whore' and strung her up in the streets for the crows. To the tune of rapturous applause." The words were matter-of-fact, but he could taste the bitterness beneath. They had been gone for months now. Esim had been dead for years. Strange how much it still hurt, after so long a time.

"In the dream?"

"In reality."

There was a pause. And then, "Damn it." He could hear the angry note in her soft voice. "Damn it, damn it, damn it. I am so sorry, Angelo."

He half-turned so that he faced her, so that he could see the apology written across her face. "Don't be," he said. "You and your blade came for most of us in the end, but on this particular score, you have nothing to be sorry for. She told me what you did. Or mayhap it'd be better to say what you would not do."

Isabel scuffed the dirt with her toe. "She did, did she?"

"Aye." Angelo still remembered the conversation, when he came to on the floor of that room with her kneeling over him. She had found him in that bloody ruin of the Undercity, and brought him back. Of them all, _he_ had been the one spared. That fact alone was enough to bury any fool notion of cosmic justice. "Why did you do it?" he asked instead. "You laid down your sword at her feet. Why?"

She shrugged. "I hate waste," she said. "And I hated the way he had sent her to me, to die. As if I were his executioner, as if I were _his_ hand. That really stuck in my craw. But mostly, I think I just felt bad for her. I was afraid she might make me do it anyway. I don't think she ever seriously meant to kill me; I think she just wanted to die."

"For love," he murmured. Isabel's eyes flashed in the darkness.

"That is foolishness," she said. "You don't die for love, you live for it."

"Perhaps." _But you loved a man who was already gone, didn't you Tamoko?_

"Did you... love her?"

The question surprised him. "She belonged to your brother," was all he said in the end.

"Do you ever wonder if, I don't know, it could have been different? That he might have been..." Isabel's voice sounded uncertain, lost.

"Are you asking me if I think he could have changed? If there was ever a time, ever a moment when he could have turned from the path he carved out for himself? No." The finality of the statement was harsh in his ears. "No, Isabel, the only voice your brother ever listened to was his own. And I fancy that his sounded a good deal like his father's."

Isabel drew her knees up to her chest, considering his words. He could sense he had disappointed her somehow, but what other answer had she expected? _You did not always believe it,_ some part of him reminded. _There was a night once, when you both cut your palms and grasped hands. A time when you called him 'brother'._

_And that man is dead,_ Angelo thought heavily. _That man died a long time ago. _Well before he found himself on the end of his sister's blade.

"Our father," she said softly. "You said 'his', but Bhaal belongs as much to me as to him."

"Maybe, but I do not believe it. You and him, Isabel? You would as sooner compare the sun and moon. You share the same sky to be sure, but one leaves the world in light and the other throws it into shadow."

She smiled. "That was almost poetic, Angelo," she said with that familiar hint of dryness creeping back into her tone. He knew then that his words had hit the mark.

"Well, I'm dog-tired, chief. But I meant it, for whatever it's worth."

"Thank you," she murmured.

They sat in silence for a long time after that, but it was a more comfortable quiet than before. She had some sort of power over him, he mused. He was not the kind of man who poured out his soul upon a woman's word, and to speak a thought or a feeling out loud was to make it more real than it ever could be otherwise. He did not feel any better for talking about Tamoko and Sarevok... but then he considered, neither did he feel any worse.

Idly, Angelo's eyes drifted over to find her again. She had fallen asleep against the old tree and a bittersweet smile touched his mouth. Maybe it was that, for all her twenty years, she knew. Isabel was a survivor too, wasn't she? How could he have forgotten that girl, kneeling among the graves making offerings to the Grey Lord for fallen friends? She knew what it was to keep walking forward. Knew that you did it because there was no other direction to go.

He wondered though, what that girl would look like, if there was no Imoen to save, or Jaheira to lean on or Yoshimo and Keto to make her laugh.

She had a lot of heart, he decided as he leaned over to pull the blanket back over her shoulders. Beneath that tough-as-nails skin, that survivor's skin, there laid unmistakably a good heart. It took a person with a lot of heart to take him in the way she had. To stand watch with a man who had once tried to kill her. Sarevok would have called it weakness. And he hated himself for that, because he was exploiting that good heart of hers, wasn't he, and proving his old master right.

xxx

There was nothing, Isabel reflected as the iron gates of Trademeet slammed shut behind her, quite so welcoming as having a dozen fine, strapping young lads pointing their crossbows at your face.

She stared unflinchingly back at one of them now; a curly-haired lad barely eighteen years old by her judge. His eyes were trained warily on her hands as she slowly raised and linked them behind her head. Behind her, the rest of her party followed suit.

_Well, this is just bloody damn perfect, isn't it? _Whilst this was by no means the first – nor likely to be the last – time Isabel had found herself facing the business end of a quarrel, she was in a particularly foul mood for it today. Armin had not been joking when he had characterised the town as being 'besieged by nature' and she had spent the last hours battling a land overgrown, wild and mutinous, in which even the trees seemed to posses vindictive minds of their own. She smelled, quite literally, like the insides of a rabid dog that had attacked them on the road, and to add to the many other insults she had endured today, Jaheira's precious Mother Nature had decided to dump a storm on her head. She was tired, bruised, scratched, stinking, soaked to the bone and now here she was with her hands up and a boy – with what barely passed for peach fuzz on his chin – staring her down through the crosshairs.

_Oh yes_, she thought sourly. This day was going swell.

"This is not good," Jaheira remarked in a low voice beside her.

"You think?" she muttered, and glanced over at Armin. "Conroy, when you asked us to come here, I only assumed that meant we were welcome. What's going on?"

The lawyer's expression was none too encouraging. "Be patient, I am sure it is a simple misunderstanding. Once the captain gets here we'll sort it out."

"Uh huh." She resisted the impulse to scream her frustration as her gaze returned to the men with weapons pointed in her direction. "This is ridiculous. Don't they know we're here to help them?"

Jaheira's expression was clouded. "They are young," she said quietly.

"So?"

"Too young to be serving in the town militia, don't you think?"

Isabel's gut tightened uneasily. Many of the guards _did_ look too young. _And scared,_ she noted too. _They all look terrified._

"Something must be up."

"I believe we're about to find out just what." Jaheira nodded slightly toward one of the militia who was making his way toward them in long-legged strides. Like his fellows, he looked younger than she would have expected. He was tall and well-built beneath a gold-braided coat that looked like it had been made for a larger man. Hair the colour of sand fell into eyes that were dark with suspicion.

"What are these?" he demanded of one of the guards. "Your orders were to open the gates for no one!"

"Lewis?" Armin frowned. "Is that you, boy?" Lewis glanced at him and surprise lit his eyes for a moment.

"I am sorry, Captain, but we recognised Master Conroy and thought it best..."

"Don't think," he snapped. "Your job is not to think, it's to shut up and obey your superior. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir."

"'Sir?'" Armin raised his eyebrows. "Since when do you give orders to the militia? Where is Captain Dessinger?"

"Conroy," Lewis said brusquely. "Much has changed since you left."

Armin's eyes narrowed. "_How_ much, exactly?"

"Dessinger is dead for one. Mauled by a mountain lion three nights past. The bastard druids got Moyena and Felden too." He raised his chin, a little defiantly. "I command the militia now."

"Dead?" The colour drained from his face. "I... I cannot believe it."

"As I said, Conroy - much has changed. Who are these strangers with you? Why have you brought them here?"

"They are... they are friends, Lewis. This is Isabel Wren and her company. They are here to help us and this is not a greeting befitting them."

"That's 'Captain', if you don't mind." He stepped toward Isabel and curled his lip. She found she was rapidly developing a strong, personal dislike for this newly-made captain. "How did you get through the roads?"

"With cunning and guile."

His eyes narrowed. "I don't appreciate smart answers. I have ten men with crossbows aimed at your heads."

"You don't say? Why don't you tell your boys to put their weapons down, _Captain_. Like the good lawyer said, we're all friends here."

He stepped closer, invading her space. "Wren, eh?" he sneered. "That's a little name for a little girl with a little sword."

Isabel's smile was murderous. "Betcha mine's bigger."

"Isabel!" Jaheira hissed sharply in her ear as Lewis flushed, his hand instantly going to his hilt. Isabel eased back, though her smile did not flicker an inch.

Lewis's gaze darted between them before finally stepping back and waving a hand in dismissal. His guards lowered their weapons and Isabel lowered her hands, hooking her thumbs into her belt.

"Thank you – Captain," Armin said in a tense voice. "Now, I must speak with my Lord Coprith. Where is he?"

"Last I heard he was at the manor. Hiding under his bed probably." A few of the militia chuckled.

"That is your Lord Mayor you are speaking of. Show some respect."

Lewis gave Armin a tired, almost pitying look. "You've been gone a long time, Conroy. You will understand soon enough."

Dismissed, Lewis left to deal with the militia, leaving the six of them gathered in the rain-slicked square. Isabel caught Angelo's sardonic look.

"Well I feel bathed in the warm embrace of a grateful town. Don't you, Isabel?" She scowled at him, unable to come up with a suitably witty reply.

"I apologise," Armin said wearily. The man looked as though he had aged ten years since breakfast. "Trademeet has always been an open, friendly place. We are a nice, comfortable people... Lewis's behaviour at the gates was wholly out of character, I assure you. I do not understand. We have never turned travellers away before. This is a caravan waypoint for Waukeen's sake!"

"Trademeet has also never before been at war with a druid grove," Yoshimo reminded him. "This is a unique situation; it stands to reason the response will stand apart from the norm as well."

Isabel jerked her head in Lewis's direction. "I doubt the druids can take full credit for that little git."

"Doubtless, but was it absolutely necessary to provoke him, Isabel?" Jaheira asked reprovingly.

She shrugged. "He was asking for it. How does a smarmy little snake like him get to captain, that's what I want to know."

"Over Captain Dessinger's conveniently mauled corpse, I suspect," Angelo murmured. Isabel's eyes flashed to his. His manner was, as ever, casually indifferent; but beneath it she could see the same worry that had coloured Jaheira's words to her before.

As Armin led the way to Coprith's residence and her pissiness ebbed, she began to worry too. There was something ill on the wind here. Something rotten. Gardens once carefully maintained now grew wild and dark; the roots of the trees buckled the cobblestoned paths. Roses and vines that had before charmingly decorated lattices and trellises now seemed something sinister, choking the neat rows of houses in a vice-like grip. It should have been a market day, but the streets were mostly deserted and the few people she did see looked at her and her friends with the same suspicious, hostile gaze that the militia had met with them at the gates.

The air was thick and heavy, and on it clung the rank perfume of fear.

Lord Logan Coprith's manor was a stately building, cut from the same sandstone as the town's walls and was, more or less, what Isabel had pictured in mind. Lord Logan Coprith himself, however, was not. Isabel had imagined a nobleman, or a stately administrator-type – the kind of man more comfortable with books and ledgers than a sword. A man accustomed to affluence. She was quite unprepared to meet a soldier.

Coprith was a tall, weathered man well into his forties, and if he was accustomed to a certain level of affluence he was also accustomed to the weight of armour and the feel of steel in his hand. He and a statuesque brunette were bent over a map in his study when they entered. At Armin's knock, both heads jerked up to reveal gaunt, haunted faces, but Coprith's eyes lightened the instant they fell on Armin.

"Conroy." He said the name like an answered prayer and strode across the room, his arms wide. The two men embraced each other like brothers. "If you aren't the damndest sight for sore eyes..."

"Armin!" the woman breathed, and fell into the lawyer's arms sobbing. "Oh, Armin, it is so good to see you! We never... these last weeks, we never thought anyone would make it into the town... We thought..."

"It's alright, Busya. It will all be alright." He patted her back awkwardly, clearly unaccustomed to comforting a weeping woman. Busya sniffed, and straightened, trying to recover her composure.

"I apologise," she said, wiping her eyes. "It has just been such an ordeal." She turned now to Isabel, and Isabel could see in this woman's eyes that despite the tears, there was steel beneath. "You must be part of the force sent to help us. We owe you a great debt for coming all this way."

Isabel glanced uncomfortably at Armin, and she could feel her companions doing the same to her. The look did not go unnoticed by either Coprith or Busya.

"I am sorry, Logan, Busya," Armin said heavily. "But there will be no aid from the capital." Isabel and the others stood silently as he related to his friends the details of their abandonment, and watched as their expressions changed swiftly from giddy hope to raw anger, edged with despair.

"Damn your sister to the Abyss, Logan!" Busya finally snapped, as Coprith sank into his chair. "As far as I am concerned, Tethyr is welcome to her!"

"This is no more Aura's fault than it is yours or mine," he replied wearily. "I never imagined the Council would be so callous. Only five mercenaries..."

"Did you say Lady Aura?" Keto interjected with a slight frown. "Aura of Riatavin is your sister?"

Coprith's expression was pained. "Yes, she is. Her... involvement with the rebellion is, I suspect, the real reason the Council has decided to leave our town to the mercies of the druids."

"Involvement? She cannot open her mouth without spewing the word 'secession'!" Busya spat. "If it weren't for her warmongering, we would have an army instead of –" her voice trailed off when she met Isabel's raised eyebrows.

"No please," she remarked coolly. "No need to stop on our account." Busya at least had the courtesy to look contrite.

"Forgive Busya," Coprith said. "This time has been a great strain upon us. We are, of course, very grateful to your company for coming."

"I'm feeling that. Listen, obviously there is a great deal we need to be caught up on, but right now, my party is tired, wet and dirty from the road. Is there somewhere we can clean up and get dry before we get down to it?" It was an imposition she knew, but she was frankly getting tired of everyone in this town looking at her and wishing she were an Amnish regiment instead.

"Of course, I should have realised. Please, the maid will direct you to one of the guest suites and I'll have her send up hot water and anything else you require."

"Thank you," she said, grateful for something for the first time that day.

xxx

A hot bath could be its own miracle sometimes, Isabel thought as she finished buttoning a fresh, blissfully dry shirt and pulled on her now only slightly damp boots. She studied her reflection briefly, raking her fingers through her stubbornly untidy hair and – satisfied she no longer looked like something the cat had dragged in on a wet, muddy night – stepped into the hall.

An equally dry and clean Keto practically beamed at her and pushed off the opposite wall.

"Hey," Isabel grinned. "I see I wasn't the only one to enjoy the Lord Mayor's exceptional hot water service."

"I feel like a new woman," she said with enthusiasm as she fell into step with her boss. "I do love our Life and the dirt that comes with it, but sometimes a girl just wants to be clean, you know?"

Isabel laughed because she _did_ know. "Say, how did you know about Coprith's sister before?"

"Just a bit of tavern room gossip," she replied. "Bars are full of loose lips and I try to keep my ears open." She paused. "Isabel, what's going on here? Something isn't right about the town."

There it was again, the same worried look. "These are unusual circumstances, Keto. It's not every day the very land you walk on, the land you live off turns against you."

"I'm not talking about Mother Nature declaring war on Trademeet; I'm talking about the people _here_. The militia on the walls? You can't tell me that was normal. And have you noticed how everyone has been staring at us since we arrived? They were looking at us like we were druids."

"True in Jaheira's case."

"Come off it, Isabel. You're worried too, admit it."

_Not worried_, she thought uneasily as she turned into Coprith's study where the rest of her party gathered. It felt more like dread.

"Miss Wren," the mayor greeted her graciously when they entered. She accepted the offered snifter of brandy and sat. Yoshimo was already sitting, while Jaheira stood by the window, her face inscrutable. There was no sign of Angelo until she heard him slip quietly into the room a few minutes later.

_Time to get this show on the road, _she thought grimly. "So tell us what the hell's going on here?"

The faint glimmer of a smile flickered across Coprith's face. "Armin said you were blunt," he commented.

"I prefer 'direct' myself." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Yoshimo hide a smile behind his hand.

"Direct, then. I imagine Armin has already told you something of our plight?" At her nod, he continued. "Even if he had not, I cannot imagine the journey here left you ignorant of it. The caravans will no longer travel the roads to Trademeet and I cannot blame them."

"How did this start?"

"Benignly enough, I suppose. It was about a month ago when we first started noticing changes in the animals. Little changes, like a normally gentle-tempered horse might throw its rider unexpectedly, or a well-trained hound might bite its master. We began hearing reports of the wild beasts getting bolder, harassing the caravans. I thought little of it at the time. And then the attacks began in earnest."

"How great is the danger to the town?" Isabel asked.

"The druids send their beasts to attack us daily. They have not breached the walls, but then, they don't need to. We have been completely cut off from the world. To travel the roads now is to court death; we know it and the traders know it too. No one may come and no one can leave." His expression was grim. "Have you ever been in a city under siege before?"

"Once," Angelo replied.

"Then you know what people are capable of when they are hungry and desperate."

"It is not the druids outside the walls you fear," Isabel said quietly, looking into Coprith's haunted eyes. "It's the mob."

The mayor nodded slowly. "Armin tells me you have a druid among your company."

Isabel glanced at Jaheira. It would be pointless to argue. Jaheira stepped forward, her chin lifted in something close to a challenge. "Is this going to be a problem, Lord Coprith? Am I to be tied to the stake, tossed to the mercies of your townsfolk?"

"I have no quarrel with you, madam. Nor is what you describe my notion of justice. But be assured, there are many in Trademeet who would condemn you without hesitation if they knew. Tread carefully here." He rose. "There is a man in my custody I would like you to meet. He may be able to shed some light upon the situation. Come with me, if you please."

Curious, Isabel followed the mayor downstairs to his cellar. An armoured guard unlocked the door at Coprith's command and one by one, they filed into the musty, windowless chamber. In the far corner of the cramped room, Isabel spied a man sitting alone in the shadows. His eyes were closed, his face tilted toward the ceiling.

"Cernd?" Coprith called. The man's eyes opened and a polite smile touched his lips. He rose slowly and stepped forward, the torchlight throwing into relief warm, golden-brown skin and almond-shaped eyes. He wore his hair long, braided with coloured beads and feathers.

"Friends of yours, Lord Coprith?" His voice was a pleasant, smooth tenor.

"I certainly would not bring enemies," Coprith replied a little dryly. "Miss Wren, this is Cernd. He is –"

"– a druid," Jaheira finished. She inclined her head and touched the side of her right knuckle to her temple in a simple movement that struck Isabel as being oddly formal.

"As are you, I see," he acknowledged with the same gesture. "Well met, sister. You blend well. That is a fortunate thing in this place, lest you end up in here."

"The militia caught Cernd almost a week ago," Coprith explained. "Had my own personal guard not intervened, I fear they would have executed him in the street."

"My own fault," Cernd commented, although the tightened shoulders belied the lightness of his tone. "I was obvious."

A statement Isabel found she had no trouble believing. If ever there was a man who just plain _looked_ like a druid, it was Cernd. "What were you doing here?" she asked instead. His answering smile was both grim and sad.

"I suspect we share a common purpose. I am – well, _was_ – investigating the attacks. The Grand Druid in the North has grave concerns regarding the situation here and I was sent to ascertain the cause, and if need be, bring the druids to heel."

"You are entirely certain the grove is responsible then?" Jaheira asked and Cernd's expression grew sympathetic.

"I too find it difficult to reconcile, but, yes... I am afraid there can be no other explanation. Nothing I have seen or heard indicates that this was provoked by the townspeople, and even if it were... this unchecked, rampant wildness is not in the natural order of things. I suspect a change in leadership has taken place." He frowned slightly to himself. "Gragus would never have allowed this."

Isabel's ears pricked. "You know the grove?" she asked sharply.

"Once," Cernd replied, his voice flat. "A very long time ago."

"How do we know we can trust you?" Angelo asked abruptly. Isabel glanced over her shoulder at him, an eyebrow raised. But before she could speak, Jaheira whirled on him.

"We trusted _you_ upon a great deal less!" she snapped.

"Does he look like a liar to you?" Keto added quietly.

"No, he doesn't," Angelo replied, meeting Jaheira's hot glare with cold practicality. "The good ones never do."

"You chose well, Lord Coprith," Cernd murmured, watching their exchange with interest. "Caution will win the day here. I can offer you nothing save my word," he said to Angelo evenly. "Only you can determine if that is sufficient."

"I vouch for him," Coprith said. "He has been in my house, under my protection for almost a week now, and I believe he speaks the truth."

Isabel glanced at them all in turn before letting her eyes settle on Cernd. "So do I."

The druid's smile was relieved. "I am glad of it. So we are agreed on a course of action? We shall seek out the source of these troubles together?"

She was about to say "yes", when the mayor caught her eye. Coprith's jaw was tight and his eyes were locked with hers. They were pleading and Isabel felt her stomach plummet. _Of course,_ she thought bleakly. _He's worried if anyone finds out he let a druid go free, he'll have a riot on his hands._ And he would not ask her, she realised. He was too honourable to ask her to go alone and leave an innocent man behind bars. But he was hoping, desperately hoping, that she would make that decision for him.

She genuinely liked Logan Coprith, but as the mantle of leadership weighed heavily on her shoulders, she hated him for making this her responsibility.

She cleared her throat and turned to her party. "Could I have the room, please?" Her voice rang hollow in her ears.

Jaheira blocked her path. "Isabel, no. This is wrong and you know it," she said in an angry undertone. "He is no criminal. He does not deserve a cage."

"His innocence is not in question," she replied softly. "Please don't make this harder than it is."

As they left, she turned back to Cernd. Guilt curled in her gut like a serpent.

He sat down with a deep sigh, the hope that had lit his lovely eyes dimmed. "I am not going with you, am I, Miss Wren?"

"It's Isabel, please," she said and upturned a nearby crate to sit before him. She leaned forward, balanced her elbows on her knees and looked up at him. "I could take you with us," she said, forcing herself to look him in the eyes. She owed him that much. "But tell me; when the militia caught you, how many of them saw your face?"

His smile was too tight. "I do not blend."

She shook her head ruefully. "If someone were to recognize you..."

"You do not trust your ability to guarantee my safety?"

"It's not that. I could probably get you out. But if anyone saw us, I'd be put in a position where I'd likely have to kill them in order to do it. And that could cause all sorts of trouble, for the mayor, for the townspeople. It's not fair, Cernd, but we can't afford the risk."

"I understand." He sighed again, this time leaning back against the cold stone wall with his eyes closed. "It has only been a week." His voice was raised barely above a whisper and yet his words fell on her like knives. "I keep telling myself that. And the courteous Lord Coprith has done his level best to ensure my confinement is comfortable. I tell myself that this is as much for my own safety as any other reason. And yet for all those truths, my mind always comes back to one: I miss the sky. It has not been so long and yet..."

"It is an eternity when the choice is not your own." Isabel said, remembering the iron cage she had only recently escaped. Despite the horrors that Irenicus had visited upon her physically, it was the helplessness that had terrified her. She had missed the sky then too. "I will be as fast as I can, Cernd. You will see the sky again soon, I promise it."

"Go swiftly as the wind, then." He tilted his head up toward her as she rose to her feet. "The wren is a quick and clever little bird, Isabel. Silvanus willing, may you be both."


	15. A Garden Untamed

**14 – A Garden Untamed**

If she thought she could have gotten away with it, Isabel would have set off for the druid grove that very afternoon. Unfortunately though, she had a sneaking suspicion that if she did act on those feelings her entire party would mutiny. Actually, she recalled sulkily, it was less sneaking suspicion and more hard fact as Yoshimo had made abundantly clear to her an hour ago when she raised the subject. Instead she had with what she considered to be remarkable self-restraint, booked rooms at the local inn, at which she had fully intended to get drunk by herself and stay that way for the remainder of the night.

Another plan foiled by her companion thief.

"Oh no, you don't," he had said over her protests, steering her away from the bar. "You are not going to spend the evening down the neck of the nearest bottle just because you want to feel sorry for yourself for making an imperfect decision. Frankly, my dear Isabel, it's both unattractive and tiresome. What more can you do for him that is not already being done? Put it away tonight. Come, be social, enjoy the company of your friends, Gods forbid _relax_ and I promise you, tomorrow you can do something very grand and heroic."

And so here Isabel sat, in the common room amidst the lively chatter of her fellow adventurers, stone bloody cold sober.

She almost yelped as a sharp kick connected with her shin beneath the table. She looked up from her tea and glared at the culprit who appeared for all the world to be listening intently to their companions' conversation about inflated prices and speculators in Trademeet. But there was a smile that did not quite fit beneath his hand and Isabel would bet on Gorion's grave that the smirk on Yoshimo's face had nothing to do with the price of sugar.

Evidently the part about "enjoying the company of one's friends" was non-negotiable too.

She turned to her companions. In addition to Yoshimo, Keto and Angelo had joined their table, as well as a quiet gypsy couple who appeared to be seeking some measure of safety in numbers from the hostility Trademeet's citizens showed any strangers.

"You understand that it isn't that I don't see the _logic _behind price-gauging," Keto was saying. "It's just that it's –"

"What? Immoral?" Yoshimo finished teasingly in a tone that implied a certain opinion of morality in general. The bard cuffed him on the arm lightly.

"Don't tease," she reprimanded. "And it _is_ immoral, but that wasn't precisely my point. Trademeet isn't that large a town. Everybody here is somebody's neighbour. When the dust settles, what will they remember? How they extorted their business partners, how they cheated their friends? Their children will be fighting feuds for the next three generations over this month's price of bread!"

"Darlin', make no mistake about it: this is a siege," Angelo said grimly. "I grant you, it is by far the most peculiar one I've seen or heard of, but the results are still so damn predictable. Speculators, opportunists, mercenaries – it's always the same. These folk are merchants and they're trading in fear. And a merchant is naught but a thief dressed up besides."

"You sound as if you speak from experience," the gypsy called Josef remarked quietly.

"Yes, you told Coprith you'd seen a siege before," Isabel asked, genuinely curious. "When was it?"

Angelo frowned slightly, the way he always seemed to when she asked him a personal question, as if he was trying to figure out why she would be interested. "Oh, it was nigh on eleven? Twelve years ago now? I was passing through Tulbegh, in Sembia. I woke up one morn and the city was surrounded; the Selgaunt mercenary army had encircled the walls during the night. It was a port city, you see, so they could hold out a fair while but still – it wasn't pretty. By the end, there were so few men left in the militia, they started conscripting. I was a foreigner and stranger both and even I was drafted. The city fell soon after the ships were torched."

"Wait... I thought you used to be _in_ the Sembian mercenary corps?" Isabel interrupted.

Angelo shrugged indifferently. "I was. This is where it started. Who did you think torched the ships?"

"You defected."

"Of course I did. The city was going to fall sooner or later and I had never intended on staying in the first place, so I figured why not make it sooner?"

An awkward silence fell over the table. "Why is it that hearing tales of your former employers always leaves me feeling so... comforted?" Isabel remarked, leaning back in her seat.

"The lord was a fool and shouldn't have thought to force me into his service," Angelo replied flatly. "East, west, north, south – they'll all tell you that a mercenary can be bought for a golder and a whore and it's the biggest lie that ever was told. To be sure, you can pay a man to kill for you – that's easy. But you will be hard pressed to pay one to die for you. _That_ brand of loyalty can never be bought, only earned." He rose. "Anyone fancy a drink?"

"Your friend is a most interesting fellow," Josef said to her dryly after Angelo left. "Where did you find him?"

Isabel lifted her shoulders and gave the gypsy a rueful, 'what-can-you-do?' grin. "I think it'd be more accurate to say that Angelo found me."

"A gifted liar. He understands truth better than most for he can best tell the difference."

Josef's wife's sudden remark caught her by surprise. Bar the quiet greeting offered when they sat, the gypsy had not uttered a word all evening.

"Why do say that?" Isabel asked curiously. The strange gypsy woman ignored her.

"I apologise if Kveroslava's manner offends," Josef said quietly. "In Roma, clairvoyants are not unusual and accorded respect, but sometimes her... insights... can be disconcerting to those unused to them." He sighed deeply. "In truth, most of our ways must seem unknowable to the people of your lands."

"And this is not the most welcoming of towns, aye?" Keto added sympathetically.

"It is our lot. We are Rom and to be Rom is not to belong."

There was nothing one could really say to such a matter-of-fact statement, made with neither pride nor self-pity. But Isabel felt a pang of sadness for the couple nonetheless. She was familiar enough with the garb of an outsider to regret it, even if Josef and Kveroslava did not.

"Uh oh," Keto caught her eye and jerked her chin toward the tavern door. "Here comes trouble." Isabel glanced over her shoulder and watched Captain Lewis enter the common room. Their eyes met briefly over the tavern floor and the captain's lip curled in a sneer.

"You know this man?" Josef asked, his voice suddenly hard.

"Enough to know that he's a self-edifying ass... why? Do _you_ know him, Josef?" Isabel questioned as her eyes tracked Lewis to the bar.

"His men ordered us expelled from the city for 'collaborating' with the druids, lest we 'proved our innocence.'" He snorted contemptuously. "I shall leave it to your imagination how one might achieve such a feat when dealing with a merchant's son. And they call _us_ the thieves."

Isabel's lifted her cup and drained it to its dregs. "You know, that tea was really great. I think I'll go fetch another." Yoshimo's eyes narrowed.

"Isabel..." he said warningly, but she was already making her way to the bar.

"A brandy please; two fingers, neat." She ordered, sliding into a space just close enough to Lewis that he couldn't help but acknowledge her presence.

He greeted her with a curt nod. "Wren."

"Why, _Captain_!" she replied with exaggerated gaiety. "What a lovely surprise! Off-duty already?" Behind him, Angelo was nursing his own glass. He glanced up at her, one eyebrow raised.

"I see Conroy and Coprith let you out from beneath their skirts. Not that those gutter rats you're currently keeping company with are any improvement."

Her drink arrived and she sipped at it delicately. The brandy went down so smooth with her rising temper. "Aye, that they did. Right after agreeing to pay me to save this darling little town of yours. Funny how things work out, isn't it? After all, isn't that supposed to be _your_ job?" She leaned over and patted his hand. "It's alright, Captain – you can leave the real work to us big boys, eh?"

Lewis shoved away from the bar violently, his face flushed with anger. "'Not doing _my_ job?' If that traitor Coprith was not so bent on protecting that druid _pet _of his, this whole thing would be over!"

_That_ brought a chill to her bones. "You are a deluded fool, Lewis," she said, shaking her head.

He grabbed her by the collar of her shirt. "You wish to dance with me, little girl?" he demanded.

"Captain, I thought you'd never ask."

xxx

Jaheira made her way quickly through the darkening streets toward Vytari's Pub, her right hand closed around the hilt of the knife hidden in her belt. She did not trust this town any more than they would trust her if they knew the truth. Why was it that fear always had the power to turn people into the worst versions of themselves, she wondered?

Vytari's Pub was nestled on the corner, its windows spilling golden light onto the shadowed street and the dull roar from within strangely inviting to a woman who generally preferred the tranquillity and quiet of the outdoors. Perhaps it was simply the wrongness of this place that was affecting her so.

Perhaps she simply needed a stiff drink.

Jaheira sighed, pausing for a moment to drink in the cool night air and listen. She could feel it in every step, this tortured land beneath her feet crying out for relief that would not come and there was nothing she could do. Just as there was very little she could do for Cernd, except it seemed, to chastise Isabel for a decision she very likely would have made in her place. Bah, would she ever truly get past this constant push and pull over leadership between them?

_Well get going then, _she thought with a sigh as she crossed the street. _Apologise and be done with it –_

_CRASH!_ Jaheira's step faltered as the tavern window shattered and rained broken glass over the cobblestones. Little wonder too, as a man tumbled out with it.

"Sune's tits!" he swore as he scrambled to his feet, palms bloody from the glass. He noticed her staring and shook his head. "I'm getting out of here. That girl is _mad_, I tell you!"

Jaheira watched him as he fled with a sinking feeling she knew exactly what 'girl' he referred to.

Instinct had her ducking even as she stepped into the inn, an ale pitcher crashing into the wall behind her. It was an old-fashioned bar brawl alright, all fists and broken furniture and everyone involved whether they wanted to or not. Well almost everyone, she thought as she spotted Yoshimo observing the pandemonium from the sidelines with obvious disapproval. She was just beginning to make her way towards him when a figure collided heavily with her, knocking them both into a nearby table.

"Gods damn you – Dosan?" The oath died on her lips as she recognised her attacker. Angelo grunted as he hauled himself back up.

"Hello, Jaheira," he greeted her conversationally, as if they had merely happened across each other in the street. He helped to her feet. "Lovely to see you, as always."

"What in the Nine Hells is going on here?" she demanded.

"Oh this? This, my dear druidess, is our darling girl's doing." He straightened his jacket and winked, his eyes gleaming golden in the lamplight. "Do excuse me," he said as he swiftly twisted around and grabbed the man who had come at him from behind and threw him into the upturned table.

Jaheira picked her away across the fray to the thief. Yoshimo nodded to her, his frown perfectly mirroring her feelings at this point.

"Care to explain, thief?" she snapped. Yoshimo sent her a withering glare.

"Ask Isabel," he replied acidly. Jaheira followed his gaze and sure enough, at the centre of the chaos was a familiar auburn head armed with a bar stool. The girl drove her opponent into the bar, before whipping the stool around to hurl at another. A third assailant swung at her wild; Isabel took the hit on her chin before landing a solid punch of her own. At her back now was Keto, who had found what appeared to be the only still-full tankard of ale. The bard promptly threw it into the eyes of the nearest man.

"What in the name of the Oak Father happened here?" she shouted over the din.

Yoshimo snorted in disgust. "Isabel decided to pick a fight with that brash fool of a captain on the gates, Lewis."

"_She_ instigated this?"

"The good captain did make a grab for her first, right before Angelo clocked him from behind. But he had a little help getting there, if you take my meaning. Where were you?"

"I was with at the manor, with Cernd," she replied as she scanned the melee. She could see Lewis now, circling Angelo warily. He lunged at the taller man; Angelo neatly sidestepped and hit low, the captain doubling over as the other man's fist caught him in the gut.

"Dear gods," she muttered the oath. She glanced beside her and noticed for the first time a pair of what, judging by their strange garb and look, appeared to be Rom gypsies. The man was tall and dark, and held his companion protectively by the shoulders. The woman seemed utterly unmoved by the chaos before her. She might have been admiring a finely sculptured statue instead of a messy barroom brawl.

"Come, my love," the male gypsy spoke firmly in her ear. "We should leave before we find ourselves drawn into this."

The woman remained transfixed. "There is much anger in that one."

Jaheira glanced warily back at Isabel, standing in the midst of the violence she had orchestrated. Her brown eyes were unusually dark in the dim light, but they sparked with fierce determination. Jaheira's gut tightened uneasily. It did not happen often, but at this moment, Isabel Wren looked a little too much like her father's daughter.

Yoshimo snorted again. "And yet much more foolishness."

_That_, she would not argue with. "We should end this before it gets any further out of hand," she said, although just what would constitute 'anything further' she wasn't precisely sure. "I know not who you are, but if you are planning on leaving I would do so now," she advised the couple beside them.

The woman nodded absently and let her husband steer her toward the door. As she passed, the gypsy's hand grasped her arm lightly. Jaheira found herself staring into pale eyes that somehow gave the appearance of being delirious and yet entirely lucid at the same time.

"Do not judge her too harshly, Harper. Your godchild has been given a difficult path to walk."

And she was gone. Rattled, Jaheira turned to Yoshimo. The thief's eyes were narrow.

"Jaheira, what did she mean?"

The druid shook her head. "Not now Yoshimo," she said and with a deep breath, waded into the fray.

xxx

The day was just damp enough to be uncomfortable as the group trudged through the woods. Isabel plucked mournfully at the worn fawn sleeve of her coat. It had travelled with her since Candlekeep so she supposed it should not surprise her that it was wearing very thin these days. Life moved forward so quickly; hard to believe that over a year had passed since she had taken that first tremulous step over the threshold of her library home.

"Ouch!" The girl rubbed at where a wayward branch had brushed the fading bruise along her jaw. Beside her, Keto winced in sympathy.

"Maybe you should ask Jaheira to have another look at it," the bard suggested. Isabel scowled in reply.

"And be lectured again? In a contest between a sore jaw and Jaheira's tongue, I'll happily take the former thank you very much."

The girls walked together, exiles at the heels of the rest of the group. Jaheira and Yoshimo, united by their disapproval of the previous evening's debacle, led the way with Jaheira just in front. Of the brawlers, only Angelo seemed to have ingratiated himself back into the fold, conversing quietly with the bounty hunter as they wound their way through the wilderness.

"I wonder how he did it," Keto remarked as if she could sense the direction of Isabel's thoughts. Isabel huffed.

"I bet you it's that 'two-Easterners-far-from-home' thing again. Angelo and Yoshimo have been thick as thieves almost from the moment I introduced them. Bastards."

Keto chuckled. "Ah well. It was worth it to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off Lewis' face. After what he did to Josef and Kveroslava, I don't regret it one bit."

"You came out of it rather well. After all that twaddle when we met about hating pain and avoiding fights, you held your own last night with quite a bit of style."

"If you recall, I also said I'd spent most of my years in the pub. You pick up a few things." Isabel returned Keto's mischievous grin. After a moment the bard cast her eyes back toward the head of the group. "I think we might be lost."

"We are _not_ lost," came the terse response.

"Are you sure? Because it's been hours and it is really beginning to feel like we're lost," Isabel said. Jaheira glared over her shoulder.

"As I said, we are not lost."

"I swear I've seen that tree before."

"We are _not_ lost! It is merely a matter of pinpointing our exact location!"

"You see, that sounds a lot like being lost to me."

"Isabel!" Isabel ducked her head to hide her grin. It was probably small of her to take such pleasure in teasing her friend, but Gods above, the druid's impression of Gorion got keener and keener with each passing day!

But the truth was, she thought as they pressed forward into the wilds, it was either that or scream. As the hours dragged on her resentment toward Trademeet, the mayor, the grove, this entire, gods-blighted venture grew like a cancer until her heart and gut felt as twisted and wild as the forest surrounding them. The shadows grew longer and finally, Jaheira came to an abrupt halt. The druid sighed in disgust.

"We are lost."

Isabel's step faltered. "What? _Really?_"

Jaheira's eyes sliced through her like red-hot pincers. "Yes, Isabel, _really_. Hard as it might be for sense to penetrate that dense, stubborn head of yours, but I am _not_ a native of this place. The druids here do not wish to be found and the grove is protecting them. There is very little I can do."

Isabel recoiled slightly, and Yoshimo sighed himself. "Let us make camp then," he said wearily, shifting the pack on his shoulder. "Night will fall soon in any case."

They made camp beneath the branches of one of the larger trees in idle hope its canopy might spare them the worst of any rain the night would surely bring. As the others pitched their tents, Isabel approached Jaheira. The druid leaned against the tree's gnarled trunk, her eyes half closed.

Hesitantly, she touched Jaheira's shoulder. "I am sorry, Jaheira. I should have thought."

Jaheira shook her head, her olive skin paler and more drawn than usual. "It is this place. This land. Normally I would expect to find peace here and yet all my ears are filled with is the sound of pain." She ran one of her hands through her hair and added, "I would that Cernd were here, honestly. Oh, don't you look at me like that – that was not aimed at you."

Isabel lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "I wish he were here too," she said simply and squeezed her friend's shoulder briefly. "I'll gather some firewood."

"I'll go with you," Angelo said, rising. Isabel did not object; even she, with her dense, stubborn head could see the foolishness in wandering off alone.

They walked in silence for the most part, although not an uncomfortable one. Isabel glanced around at the untamed, untouched wilderness of her surrounds, wondering what it was in this wood that caused her friend such misery. To her, it was just another forest – although that _did_ surprise her, for what she had seen of nature's assault on Trademeet had borne certain expectations. If she felt or thought anything of it, she might guess that the grove was not an old one. There was something brash, even arrogant about it – it truth, most of Amn felt that way. Perhaps it was because it was a relatively new country, but she noticed that Athkatla too had a certain brazen cheek about it; all loud, bright and vain, with that reckless brand of bold that youth so often exhibits before experience has had time to temper it and teach it caution.

Or perhaps, she reflected cynically, she was just projecting.

"You really ought to get that seen to," Angelo said, interrupting her thoughts. He gestured at last night's souvenir and Isabel grimaced.

"As I told Keto, I'd rather spare myself the grief of listening to Jaheira wax on about how irresponsible and foolish and lacking I am in the basic faculties the Gods gifted squirrels with, thanks." She glanced up at him and rolled her eyes. "And I can tell from your expression that you think that reasoning very silly, don't you?"

Angelo shrugged as bent to pick up his bundle of kindling. "Well, it's grief you deserve so why not get it over with?"

Isabel raised her eyebrows incredulously. "I didn't _start_ it, you know!" Angelo sent her a wounded look and she conceded. "Oh alright, I _may_ have started it a little bit. But if you feel that way, why did you throw the first punch?"

"Tell me why you started it first. The captain was a git, but not that big a git."

Isabel exhaled sharply and pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. "Oh, I don't know, Angelo! Because I was angry. Because Lewis _was_ a pretentious little wasp. Because I hate this job, and the townspeople are a miserable, ungrateful lot of cowards and so is Coprith, and because of them I had to leave a good man to rot, just to _protect_ their miserable, ungrateful, cowardly hides and because I haven't seen my best friend in nearly _two months_ and..." her tirade faltered and she slumped onto the nearest log, dropping her head into her hands. "And maybe because of the look in Cernd's eyes when I told him he wasn't going to be freed." She looked up at Angelo. "It was not so long ago that I was left in a cage. I never thought I would be the one to do that to another person."

Angelo regarded her silently for a moment. "That is incredibly stupid, Isabel."

Isabel slapped her hands on her thighs and jumped to her feet. "Well, I've certainly enjoyed this little chat –" she said going to leave, but Angelo dropped his kindling and caught her arm, forcing her to face him.

"You cannot possibly think to compare yourself to Irenicus," he said quietly. "You left Cernd under the care of a decent man, _temporarily_, and you did it to protect people. You believe your wizard's intentions were so honourable? He tortured you, Isabel, and you would equate your decision with his?"

She felt her body jerk involuntarily. "How would you know that?" she asked harshly.

_Because I worked with you every day during the Skinner investigation,_ he thought, the anger colouring those unspoken words catching him by surprise. _Because I recognise the haunted look in your eyes, and I hear you relive it each night in your sleep._ "Does it matter?"

"I suppose not," she sighed after a moment, and her expression softened to something closer to resignation. "I did not say it made sense," she added. "It's just... what it feels like. Any way you look at it, he's in there because of me."

"It was the right call."

"That doesn't make it any less difficult or any less my responsibility, Angelo."

"No it doesn't, but take credit where it's due. He got himself caught, Coprith put him in the cellar, and it's the townspeople banging on the door that's keeping him there. You can't always be in control, Isabel, and it's pointless to claim responsibility for events not of your making just so you can pretend that you are."

She stared, then began to shake her head, rueful smile tugging at her mouth. "You know how I hate it when you do that. The whole 'being right' deal is incredibly irritating."

A smile ghosted over his face. "We each have our cross to bear."

"So, your turn. If you thought I was being crazy stupid, why did you join in?"

"Because I saw you were about to do something crazy stupid and when you are about to do crazy stupid things, it's not a person telling you to stop that you want; it's a friend who's going to stand beside you while you do it."

He said it so simply, and Isabel found herself ducking her head as a rare smile shyly spread across her face.

He couldn't know that she was thinking it was exactly the sort of sentiment that Imoen would have expressed. He couldn't know that somehow, when he used the word "friend" she had realised that it was true. Impossibly, against all rhyme and reason, she counted Angelo Dosan as a friend. She could not pinpoint the precise time or place when she had moved past their history, but she knew now that she no longer cared that he had once signed her execution warrant. The man who had stood against her last year was not the same person she believed stood before her now, staring at her with a puzzled frown.

She opened her mouth to tell him but the words were cut short when without warning, he seized her by the shoulders and swiftly pushed her back into the shadow of the nearest tree, pinning her body against the gnarled trunk with his own. "What the hell...?" she began, but he responded only by covering her mouth with his hand, muffling her protests.

"Hush!" he snapped, barely raising his voice above a whisper. She struggled against him, but the man's arms were like iron.

"– just don't understand why she thinks it's necessary!" complained an unfamiliar male voice. Isabel froze at the sound, realizing too late what had made Angelo drag them both behind the tree. The voice grew louder, and it was not alone.

"Funny that none of us heard you raise such objections with _her_, Dalok," another voice replied coolly.

"Yes, only _we_ should be so lucky," a third, male again, added.

"I am no fool," the voice belonging to the man the second called 'Dalok' retorted. "And I am not one of those backward loyalists, too stuck in the old ways to see what is before my eyes. The grove is stronger than ever before, but since Gragus she has been so paranoid –"

"Silence, Dalok!" The second man snapped. "Faldorn will know of your insolence!"

They were in the clearing now, standing mere paces from where she and Angelo had been arguing just moments before. There were four in total – or five, if you counted the large mountain lion that padded soundlessly beside one of them. They were all armed, although she noted blackly that in this setting, the forest itself was a weapon more dangerous than any blade. The rough bark of the tree pressed into her back uncomfortably, and she was practically in Angelo's arms, but she didn't dare move. The sky was dark now, but one foul sound, one stray movement and they would both be done for.

"Does she really believe that the pup would return?" Dalok said to the others, while the lion sniffed at the earth absently.

"If Gragus sent word to the north, perhaps. But if Cernd _is_ here, why hasn't he acted yet?"

_Cernd?_

"He isn't here." It was a different voice this time, the fourth druid. His was harder, more final than the others. She craned her neck slightly to see better but he was facing away from them and all she could glimpse was a tall, wiry build.

"How can you be so sure, Pauden?"

"The wolf may disguise himself as men do, among other men, but the pack will always recognize its own. He isn't here, Kyland." The fourth druid, Pauden, had turned away from the others, staring off into the shadows. Isabel held her breath.

_Gods, oh gods oh gods! _She thought desperately, her mouth suddenly very dry. _If he looks to his left, there's no way he won't see us! _Angelo's fingers tightened into her flesh.

"Is that disappointment I hear?" Kyland asked.

_Don't look left. Don't look left._

"Only your wishful thinking, Kyland. But there is something odd..." his voice trailed off and even in the darkness, she could see his brow furrowed in a frown.

_Don't look left. Please, don't look left._

He looked left.

Time seemed to stand still. The druid stared straight at them, eyes widening the slightest of fractions.

"Pauden?" one of the others asked. Pale eyes narrowed. Measured. She wondered if he could hear her heart hammering against her ribcage.

"Nothing," he said finally, and abruptly turned back to his fellows. "We should leave, follow the stream north and back to the grove. Faldorn will be anxious for our report."

"We _know_ the way, old man," Dalok sounded as if he were rolling his eyes, but slowly the voices grew quieter as the druids faded back into the wood as if they had never been.

Even so, it was a very long time before either Angelo or Isabel dared move.


	16. Upon a Throne of Thorns

**15 – Upon a Throne of Thorns**

Although he knew his body sat alone in a dark cellar, in his mind, Cernd was running. Not the giddy, uneven gait of the deer that has newly discovered its legs or the focused march of the bear. His run belonged to the wolf. He bounded across the moonlit western plains, raw and powerful and bold as befits the hunter, and above all else – free.

Above, a full white moon smiled down upon him, its light translating the endless landscape into rich shades of silver and blue. Stars pricked the midnight sky like diamonds.

_You will see the sky again soon, I promise it._

He sighed, the memory drawing him from his reverie and back to the dark, musty basement beneath Trademeet. He did not doubt the girl's sincerity, but why then could he not rid himself of this awful dread? It was almost as if the closer he clung to her promise, the more terrified he became that it would all come to nothing.

It was merely nerves, he thought, trying to calm himself. Nerves rubbed raw by his captivity, by the uncertainty of his situation. _Be as the still waters of the lake. A pebble may upset the surface, but the lake remains unchanged._

Two days had passed since Coprith had sent Isabel and her company on their way and he hoped it would not be much longer. Still, he knew better than most how difficult their task was. The forest had ways of protecting itself against intruders for all that a druid travelled with them. Jaheira was a sister, but she was not bound by blood to this land.

Not like him. Long years had passed but, even twisted and tortured as it was, the earth was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

Guilt tugged uncomfortably at his conscience, and he knew he should have told them more. He ought to have told them about the grove, warned them of the poison he was sure was at its heart; Faldorn. But he couldn't bring himself to. Such knowledge would have brought with it demands for not just the truth but the whole truth. Even if he could bear telling the shame of his exile, it would spell certain death for him at the hands of his captors. Logan Coprith was a reasonable man, a good man. But even good men had their limits, and Cernd still was not even sure it was not exactly what he deserved.

His return was meant to be his penance. He would correct the wrong he had wrought; he could atone and finally be able to come home.

He should have paid more attention to the sages, he thought bitterly. After all, hadn't they been saying all along you can never go home again?

Cernd closed his eyes, leaned back against the wall and searched his heart once more for the peace of those rolling, moonlit plains and an endless sky. So preoccupied was he that he did not hear the footsteps on the stairs until the cellar door slammed wide open.

"Isn't this cosy?" The man in the door stared at him with cold eyes. He was flanked by three other men and every face echoed their leader's contempt. It was a contempt Cernd understood intimately.

"Where is Lord Coprith?" he asked, all his effort dedicated to keeping his voice steady and polite. The wolf within stirred, but he schooled his spirit to calm.

"Not your concern anymore, _druid_. Boys, get him!"

xxx

They followed the stream north through the night. Jaheira kept their pace slow so as not to draw any unwanted attention, but by morning they had found the druid's grove and the source of Trademeet's woes.

Isabel and Jaheira lay flat on their bellies, observing from high above on a rocky outcrop that overlooked the heart of the grove itself. Below, some dozen druids wandered about their business in the grassy glade. The brook that had guided them wound its way through the white birches and disappeared into the overgrown ruins that the druids had claimed as home. Isabel wondered idly at that. In some age long past, civilization had conquered nature in this place, only to have the favour repaid in kind.

"What do you think?" she asked her companion. Jaheira's expression was difficult to read. The cool dawn light seemed to leech the green from her slanting eyes, leaving them an inscrutable gunmetal grey.

"Nothing good," she murmured in reply. "Any form of assault would be suicidal and Shadow Druids will patrol the south and western approaches. We will not elude them."

"Shadow Druids? You know what they are?"

Jaheira nodded grimly. "The attacks bore all the hallmarks of Shadow Druidism, and now that I can see it with my own eyes, I am certain. They are fiercely territorial and militant in nature, Isabel. Bloodthirsty even. And we are in their den. This is not a foe we can defeat conventionally."

Isabel chewed her lip. "I don't see that druid – Pauden – down there anywhere," she said uneasily. Jaheira turned slightly to look at her closely.

"You suspect a trap?"

"Maybe," she said, returning her gaze back down to the grove below. "He knowingly led us here, but we don't actually know why. And he knew Cernd. They all did." She glanced sideways at Jaheira. "Cernd hasn't been entirely truthful with us."

Now it was Jaheira who looked away. "I am sure he had his reasons. And even if it is a trap, our path remains unchanged."

That much at least was true. "Well, if we can't sneak in and we can't barge through the front door, what are we supposed to do?

"Knock."

"Fine, so we... hold on, we what?" Isabel sent her a bewildered look as Jaheira rose and began walking back down the hill where their party waited. Hurriedly, she scrambled down after her. "What do you mean, 'we _knock_'?" she demanded.

"We announce ourselves and ask to be permitted entry."

"That is the plan?" Yoshimo said pleasantly. He was leaning against a nearby tree, absently cleaning one of his knives. "How unusually civilized of us."

"What makes you believe they won't just, I don't know, _kill_ us?" Isabel protested.

"It is the only course of action open to us, lest we wish to turn around and forget the entire venture," Jaheira replied tersely as she slung her pack over her shoulder. "There are yet some laws that even Shadow Druids dare not break. Come, it will not do for them to happen across us first."

The others exchanged uncertain looks. Isabel felt sure everyone had heard the unspoken words '_I hope' _underneath Jaheira's plan.

Still, they followed her back down toward the grove. Isabel could feel the others' tension; as far as gambles went, this one felt pretty damn big. She glanced over at Keto.

The bard noticed her looking and threw her a wan smile. "Are you as nervous as I am?"

"Yes," she confessed. "Not to lay it on, but you know it's a crazy plan when even _I _think it's nuts."

Keto couldn't help but chuckle at that. "True, but think. How many times have _you_ asked Jaheira to follow you on some high-risk, lunatic scheme you cobbled together in a handful of minutes?"

"That's – that's not the point!"

"It is harder to trust than to lead, but good leaders learn to do both," she said shrewdly. "Trust her, Isabel. Jaheira knows what she's doing."

Isabel bit her lip and stayed silent, thinking. Keto was right and Angelo's words the night before about her need to always be in control echoed in her mind.

A few minutes later, Angelo fell into step with Jaheira. "We are being watched," he said quietly.

Jaheira's mouth was set in a grim line. "I am aware. Be ready, but follow my lead and for the Gods' own sakes, _don't_ do anything rash," she told everyone, although Isabel noted darkly it seemed she had added the last part mostly for her benefit. Jaheira turned back to the forest and lifted her voice.

"This child of the woodlands bids you welcome, and asks that you show yourselves!" she called out. No one answered, and Isabel shifted instinctively into a fighting stance. Her fingers flexed around the hilt of her sword.

Then she saw them. The druids seemed to just materialize out of the forest. They were many too; she swallowed hard as they surrounded their party. There was something sinister about the way they blended so easily with the wilderness – not just inhabitants of the wood, but _part_ of it.

"Hail, _friend_." The druid who spoke approached Jaheira suspiciously. "You trespass upon our Lady Faldorn's earth. I would know your name and your purpose."

Jaheira met his glare evenly. "I am Jaheira, of the Tethyran grove of Avelene." Isabel noted that Jaheira made the same gesture that she had made when she first met Cernd. So it was some sort of secret druid code, then, she figured, watching the other druids trade their surprise in raised eyebrows and stolen glances. Clearly they had not expected to find a sister amidst the intruders.

The first druid was less impressed, but responded in kind. "Well met, sister," he replied without warmth. "I am Kyland Lind." With a start, Isabel recognized the name and now the face of one of the druids from the night before. A shared look with Angelo confirmed he too had remembered.

"You are far from home, Tethyr," he continued. "And you have yet to reveal the nature of your purpose in our lands."

"Not all brothers and sisters of Nature are bound to their groves. Some of us are not so fortunate to find true... acceptance in our lands," she answered, choosing her words carefully. She was a Harper. She could play this game better than they could dream. "I have heard a great many things about this grove. I wished to sate my curiosity."

Kyland raised an eyebrow. "And what have you heard?"

"That the druids here have turned to shadow." She looked him in the eye and lowered her voice. "That they do not flail impotently as the city vermin encroach upon their lands. That they do not surrender Nature's gifts to the blight of their so-called 'civilization'."

"I see. Perhaps we share a kinship, you and I. But," and he gestured toward the rest of their party, "it is obvious your companions do not."

"They are not Nature's children, but they fight alongside her as true friends of the forests."

"Only Nature's children are recognized here, Tethyr. Your companions are not welcome."

"Hold a moment, Kyland." Pauden stepped out from the wood. Isabel's heart beat wildly against her chest as the older druid's pale eyes fixed on hers. "I think the Lady would be very interested to meet these ones. Perhaps we ought to let her determine their worthiness."

Kyland appeared to consider his words. "Your words speak wisdom, Pauden," he replied at length. "We shall let the Lady Faldorn decide their fates. I bid thee welcome, sister of the south."

"Yes," Pauden added, his grim smile sending Isabel's nerves jittering. "Come into the garden."

xxx

Pauden and Kyland led them through the open-air ruins and it was nothing short of sheer determination that kept Isabel's face blank and impassive. Inside, her nerves were twitching beneath her skin. No matter Jaheira's faith in their plan, Isabel felt more and more like the mouse in this game they were playing. _But just which one is the cat?_ She wondered uneasily as she saw Pauden nod slightly to a man beside an odd, bramble chair and the raven-haired woman – the Lady Faldorn, she guessed – who sat upon it.

Faldorn was an imposing figure. Even from across the ruin, Isabel could see she was in formidable physical form. Long, lean and sleekly muscled, Faldorn lounged on her self-styled throne of thorns and exuded all the casual, arrogant confidence of a predator. Small black eyes examined their group with amused indulgence.

"Kyland, Pauden," and both men bowed – although Kyland bowed noticeably deeper, Isabel observed. His reverence seemed to her more appropriate in a throne room than in a forest. "What exactly are these you have brought me? Some fools come to stop the righteous force of Nature?"

"My lady," Kyland replied in a voice that dripped with deference. "These people claim kinship with our cause. They are led by a sister from Tethyr, Jaheira." Jaheira stepped forward and inclined her head slightly. Faldorn's gaze lingered on her for a moment before returning her attention to Kyland. She rose and stepped down from her throne to stand before Kyland. He respectfully dropped his gaze to her feet but the Lady gripped his chin and forced him to look her in eye.

"Do you take me fool?" she hissed.

"N-no, my lady!" he stammered.

"Did you think I would not recognize an imposter in my own court? Did you think I would fall for such an inept disguise? What did this druid bitch tell you? Some pretty words about how her fellows 'did not understand', how 'it was time civilization received their due'? _I am bound to this grove!_ Do you understand what that means – or like your own idiocy, is it too beyond your comprehension?"

"My lady, I swear I didn't –"

Faldorn's expression softened and she framed his face with both hands. "Your mewlings mean nothing to me, Kyland. You are either a traitor or a fool and I have no patience for either," she said smiling, and snapped his neck.

Isabel heard Keto stifle a horrified gasp beside her and she quickly found the girl's hand and squeezed it tightly.

Faldorn turned to Pauden and her expression actually appeared genuinely puzzled. "I must say, _you_ surprise me, Pauden. Many things I have thought you in the past, but a fool was never one of them."

Pauden shrugged laconically. "I knew them for what they were. They have the stink of the city and the pup on them. I thought you might like to handle this personally."

Faldorn raised an eyebrow. "The pup?" she spat and spun around to glare at Jaheira. "So Cernd was the one who sent you? The pup has more viper in him than wolf it seems."

Jaheira returned Faldorn's hateful glare evenly. "Whatever is the matter, sister? Scared?" There was just the barest hint of a mocking smile playing on Jaheira's lips, but it was enough to set the lady of the grove well and truly off.

"Scared? I am bound to this earth, bitch! Your fellows shun such practices, but the Mother feeds _me_ so that I might fight for her! No harm can come to me in this place – your betrayal of our cause has been for naught, Tethyr."

"Betrayal?" Jaheira replied archly. "Nay, Faldorn, it is you, not I, who is the true traitor amongst us. Your vile Shadow Druidism is a perversion of everything our society stands for. This is not our way, but its end _will_ be my doing."

Faldorn grinned. "You dare to challenge me, Jaheira of Tethyr? It shall be your death."

"No, it shall be yours."

xxx

"Are you _crazy_?" Isabel demanded as Jaheira stripped off her armour. She clenched her fists at her sides as she watched Jaheira make her preparations for the battle. Everyone had gathered around the challenge ring, a pit dug deep into the ground outside the ruins. The dirt was an ugly rusted red colour that reminded her uneasily of the colour of dried blood.

Opposite them, Faldorn similarly prepared and the other druids clamoured around to watch the duel. Isabel couldn't have cared less for their stares however. Her concern was solely for this fool of a half-elf beside her.

"This was the only way, Isabel," Jaheira replied steadily. "You heard her; she has bound herself to the spirit of the grove. That makes her all but invincible outside the challenge ring."

"Sune's tits, Jaheira, did you not see what she did to Kyland?"

"Isabel, you need to calm down." Yoshimo laid a hand on her shoulder, but Isabel shook the thief off angrily.

"The hell I do!" she snapped. "Jaheira, this is stupid. You could die!"

Jaheira straightened and gave her a hard look. "So you mean to tell me it is only acceptable when _you_ take all the risks?" she returned and Isabel flushed. "Any one of us could die, and at a moment's notice at that. That is the life I chose, Isabel, and I make no apologies for it. And if Khalid were here, he would tell you the same thing."

Isabel turned away, biting her lip to keep the tears that stung her eyes from flowing. Suddenly, she crushed her friend in a fierce hug.

"You damn well better not let that bitch kill you," she whispered. "I'll be damned if I have to find another prickly druid guardian to beat some sense into me."

Jaheira smiled tightly into Isabel's hair. "Understood."

"If you two are finished being sentimental...?" Faldorn called. The druid leapt down into the challenge pit with catlike grace and smiled up at them tauntingly. Jaheira turned back one last time to her companions.

"Gods go with you, Jaheira," Keto wished her, grasping her hand briefly.

"I would wish you luck, my friend," Yoshimo told her quietly as he handed her her staff. "But it would be an insult. You do not need luck to take this sorry excuse for a woman down." He winked encouragingly.

"She's not worth twenty of you," Angelo added. "Put her down, Jaheira."

She smiled at them in turn, unexpectedly warmed by their faith in her and she realised how much they all had come to mean to her over the past months. There was an old adage that said you drew strength from one's friends. It was trite, she thought as she dropped down into the pit. And just maybe a little bit true.

She didn't hesitate. As soon as her feet hit the red earth, she whipped her staff around to meet Faldorn's. _Crack!_ She blocked a strike that would have crushed her skull had it connected, ducked and then feinted to the side. Her opponent's grin was predatory and before long the pair of them were locked in a brutal exchange of blows and parries. Jaheira smiled grimly. It had been a long time since she had faced so superior an adversary and the warrior in her enjoyed the challenge. Faldorn's style was brutish and lacked discipline, but she fought hard and fast and showed no signs of slowing down.

Isabel watched from above as they fought, trying not to let the fear in her throat get the better of her. She didn't realise she was trembling until Keto put an arm around her shoulders.

Jaheira and Faldorn circled each other, both panting. Isabel recognized this part of the battle, that final act between two opponents who were just too well matched. Now fatigue was the real danger. This was the time when mistakes most often occurred, a time when one's body could – and if dragged out much longer, ultimately would – betray them.

Suddenly, a feral grin spread across Faldorn's face. Without warning, she tossed her staff aside and _shifted_. Isabel had wrangled with doppelgangers before, but she had never witnessed anything quite like what she saw now. The druid's body twitched and blurred, her skin rippling, her limbs elongated and she leapt toward Jaheira with an inhuman snarl. Jaheira's eyes widened and she cursed as she dropped and rolled away as a sleek, black panther lunged for her.

"Oh, come on!" Isabel shouted desperately. "No way is that fair!"

An iron fist clamped about her wrist, preventing her from drawing her sword. She glared up at Pauden.

"You must not interfere," he told her firmly.

"She's my _friend_," Isabel replied hotly. "How can I not?"

"You mustn't. This is the only way it can end."

"End?" she mouthed as she turned, petrified, back to the fight. Woman and panther wrestled in a flurry of black and brown, flesh and fur. Jaheira screamed as the panther caught her leg in its jaws and flung her across the pit. Her head hit the ground with an excruciating _crack_. Lying face down where she landed, Jaheira felt tears of pain and exhaustion roll down her cheeks. Looking up she could see Isabel amidst the sea of faces, her face white with horror before the panther advanced toward her and blocked the girl from view. The beast stared at her with cold, amber eyes and Jaheira closed hers. _One last trick._ Her fingers dug into the red earth.

The ground began to tremble beneath them. The panther hesitated, and pawed at the earth in confusion. Suddenly brambles and vines sprung from the earth and entwined around the beasts legs. It howled in pain, fighting in vain to escape the thorny vice Jaheira's spell had summoned. Agonizingly slowly, Jaheira struggled to her feet and limped towards it. She stopped only to retrieve Faldorn's abandoned weapon.

"Silvanus show mercy on your black heart, Faldorn," she spat. "The Mother as my witness knows I won't." And she buried her staff through the beast's throat.

A shocked silence fell over the grove and then suddenly broke as Keto let out a great whoop, and Isabel shook off the arms that restrained her, leapt down and caught Jaheira as she was about to stumble. She could hear the others cheering above as she buried Jaheira in a massive hug. Relief and joy coursed through her and their embrace tightened. Isabel discovered that she was both laughing and crying and she didn't give a damn.

xxx

"Nicely done, Jaheira of Tethyr," Pauden extended his hand as they gathered around just outside the challenge ring. Jaheira herself slumped against a stone pillar long overgrown as one of the other druids tended to her injured leg. She met the old druid's pale eyes shrewdly.

"I was not entirely sure of your intentions earlier when we met," she said lightly.

"Nor I of yours," he replied with a small smile. "Your ruse was quite convincing."

"You _planned_ this?" Isabel demanded.

"Indeed," Pauden replied. "Although _gambled_ might be the more apt description. When I saw you two," he nodded at Angelo, "in the woods last night I saw my opportunity. You could not have come so far into the forest without a druid in your company – and I needed a druid."

"A clever game," Yoshimo nodded, almost approvingly. "Lead us here, close enough to Faldorn that Jaheira might challenge her. You have used us well, druid."

"I will not apologise for my deception. It was necessary. Faldorn has wrought a terrible punishment upon this land. Her only vulnerability lay in her submission to the old ways."

"Why could _you_ not have fought her as Jaheira did?" Angelo challenged, before waving away Pauden's imminent answer. "Nay, do not bother; I know the answer well enough. Why risk your own life when others might do it in your stead, aye?"

Pauden shrugged. "I doubt I could have defeated her in any case. You saw her strength."

"I have a question, if I may," Keto began. "You and Faldorn both talked about 'the pup'. What did that mean?"

A slow smile split his careworn face. "Why, you've already met him, child. I speak of Cernd, of course."

"How is it you know Cernd?" Isabel asked sharply.

The druid sighed deeply. "Cernd was once one of our number. Years ago he found his home in our grove, before... well, certain events made it impossible for him to stay. When this business with Trademeet and Faldorn began, I had hoped the Grand Druid in the North would send Cernd back to us. He would have been the natural choice."

"He was sent to investigate," Jaheira answered carefully. "But he ran afoul of some of the townspeople. He is being held in custody in Trademeet."

Pauden frowned. "Custody? Impossible."

"It was for his own protection," Yoshimo offered. "The mayor is all that is keeping him from the mercy of the mob."

Comprehension dawned slowly in Pauden's eyes. "Ah. I think I understand now."

"It was my decision to leave him with the mayor," Isabel added, bristling. Jaheira squeezed her arm gently but Pauden simply shook his head.

"No child, it was not your decision, but his." He glanced at the druid tending Jaheira. "Are you finished, Emric?" The young man nodded an affirmative and silently left them in privacy. "I feel I must explain some things to you about Cernd." Pauden turned first to Isabel. "I sense a troubled conscience in you, child. You feel responsible for his fate. You shouldn't. Cernd is a werewolf."

"He's a _what_?" Keto all but choked. Her surprise was mirrored on everyone else's faces, save Jaheira's.

"You're kidding," Isabel replied, bemused. "Our acquaintance was not long, but a more placid, even-tempered fellow I've yet to meet!"

"Years spent learning to control his condition will render that effect, I am sure," Pauden said with a ghost of a smile. "But, be assured, he is a lycanthrope. So you might now understand my confusion earlier when you told me he was being held. No cage could hold a werewolf if he truly wished to escape it."

"I feel there is more to this story," Yoshimo said. The thief stared intelligently at Pauden. "Why did Cernd leave your grove all those years ago?"

"Ah, you have gone to the heart of the matter. It is a long story, and not all of it mine to tell, but I will speak plainly. Cernd was not always as you know him. When he was young he was very troubled. He feared the excesses of Trademeet's expansion, and he among others, advocated a harder line be taken with the town's leadership. One of those others was Faldorn."

"Seriously?" Keto breathed. "Talk about your chickens coming home to roost!"

"They were very close back then. Gragus was our leader and he curbed them for the most part. Around the same time, Cernd became afflicted with lycanthropy. It was an accident, completely unintended, but the curse claimed him nonetheless. You must understand, even among druidic circles, lycanthropy is looked upon with the highest suspicion. It is difficult enough for a young man to find his place in Nature without bearing so unnatural a taint."

"I understand," Isabel replied a little bleakly. Pauden continued.

"A month after the accident, Cernd and Faldorn happened across two trappers trespassing on our lands. They hailed from Trademeet, and knew the law. Cernd allowed his curse to get the better of him. He killed them both."

"You cast him out," Keto guessed, but Pauden shook his head.

"Not at first. Cernd was horrified at what he had done; his remorse was sincere. He and Faldorn had a bitter row over it. Unlike him, she was... inspired. But Cernd spoke out against her and cautioned the others against taking to violence. Even so, the incident proved he could not control his condition and Gragus sent him to the North. He has not been home in years."

Yoshimo frowned. "Foolish man," he murmured more to himself than to the others. "Why he did not tell us this himself?"

"He was ashamed, Yoshimo," Isabel answered softly. Her brown eyes were unusually sad.

"Yes," Pauden sighed, weary from the retelling. "He has carried that shame for a long time. I fear that is why he yet remains in Trademeet. He would not dare risk another's life by shifting, even if that life belonged to his captor."

"Foolish," Yoshimo muttered again.

"Even so," Isabel sighed. Perhaps Yoshimo was correct and Cernd's behaviour was ultimately foolish... but she couldn't help but empathise with his plight. Thanks to Bhaal, she knew something of unasked for curses too. "We should make our way back soon. Are you well enough to travel?" she asked Jaheira. The druid grunted.

"Well enough."

"I will accompany you," Pauden announced. "The mayor and I will have much to discuss, and the sooner peace is formally re-established between us, the better. All things must find their balance."

Isabel nodded, and helped Jaheira to her feet as their party prepared to leave the grove. She kept a steadying hand on her arm, but wondered if it was less for Jaheira's benefit than for her own. She didn't feel quite ready to let her friend go, just then. Unnoticed, Jaheira's grey eyes crinkled slightly and she leaned against Isabel's shoulder.

She didn't feel quite ready either.

xxx

The sun hung low in the sky as their party passed through the gates of Trademeet late that afternoon. The town appeared battered, it was true, but Isabel could already see the first signs of relief were evident. One of the guardsmen let out a great whoop when he saw them approach, and jumped down from his post to greet them.

"Milady Wren!" he gasped, seizing her hand in both of his. "The animal attacks have stopped! I know not what you fellas did out there in the wilds, but I'll be thanking you all 'til the end of my days, I surely will!"

She smiled inwardly, glad that after all this grief, some good had finally come from it. She asked for the mayor's whereabouts and was informed she might find him in the town square. She let the others go and find rooms for them at the local inn, leaving herself, Jaheira and Pauden to find Coprith and make their report. They had nearly reached the square when Isabel found herself stopping suddenly in surprise.

"Goodness, Lewis, what happened to you?" she said, astounded. Lewis glared at her and spat on the ground at her feet. The captain's hands and feet were clamped in irons, and he along with three others in chains, were being escorted by the mayor's personal guard out of the square.

"Bitch," he muttered as he passed.

"Charming fellow, isn't he?" Isabel remarked to nobody in particular as she watched the guards take them away, wondering just what he had done to earn such a deserving fate.

Coprith met them at the gates. He was dressed in full armour, which she found a little odd, but she smiled a greeting anyway. They shook hands and he thanked her for their efforts and asked that they all stop by his manor that evening to discuss the matter more fully. Isabel frowned slightly at his distractedness.

"Is something the matter?" she asked. Coprith's expression was very strange. Almost like... guilt?

"There was an... incident in the square earlier today," he said evasively. Isabel's frown deepened. The mayor was hedging. Why?

"Did it have something to do with the captain being escorted in chains just now?" Jaheira queried. Coprith nodded uncomfortably.

"Yes, it does. Miss Wren – Isabel – I want you to know how sorry I am. I was lured away from the town under false pretences, and by the time I had uncovered the deception it was too late. I could not get to him in time to stop Lewis and his fellows."

A chill shivered down her spine and Isabel swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. "Stop them from doing what, exactly?"

Coprith would not look her in the eye, but she heard Pauden's soft, "oh," beside her and she felt Jaheira's fingers dig into her arm. With a sinking heart she followed their stares, through the arches and into the shadowed square, where Cernd's body hung limply from the hangman's noose beneath the orange-stained sky.


End file.
